


Occult Couture.

by anantipodean



Series: Vampyre [3]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), DCU (Comics), Impulse (Comics), Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics), The Flash (Comics), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anantipodean/pseuds/anantipodean
Summary: Originally posted on livejournal in 2012 as girl_starfish. Incomplete and very unlikely to be finished. I know. :(Kon strikes out on his own. Bart and Tim are not impressed. Unfortunately, the director has plans for them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, I got a notification of a spam comment on a livejournal post, reminding me that I wanted to get Vampyre and its sequels off livejournal before it inevitably self-destructs. I'm posting the story entirely unchanged. There's a lot I would change if I was writing this today, but I'm making the decision to leave it as it is, questionable characterisation, clunky sentences and all.
> 
>  
> 
> Original notes, written in 2012: 
> 
> It was about 10000 words into my Nano project (about a Victorian-era spinster who solves problems because tackling crime would be un-ladylike) that I remembered I'd done something like this before. I was struggling for inspiration and thought that looking up what I wrote then might give me a boost. 
> 
> It did, but not quite in the way I expected. Hey guys -- I'm writing a sequel to a fic that hasn't been updated since 2006. Yeah. 
> 
> I'm going to warn anyone who accidentally stumbles across this now that it's probably going to be very different from it's precursors, simply because six years of distance is obviously going to impact, but also because of the focus -- Vampyre was Bart's, Zhombies was Tim's even if Kon narrated both, and Occult Couture is all about Kon coming home. Stylistically it's different in that there are going to be other narrators, and the reason for that is the biggest difference. The boys are going to be apart for a lot of this fic. Distance isn't necessarily a bad thing -- I think realizations will be made, bonds tested, characters strengthened and proposals refused, but in the end they'll be stronger for it. Necessary -- but maybe not fun. 
> 
> Scratch that. It's got Kon, Tim and Bart in it. This is going to be all sorts of fun.

The nightmares were always the same. All was dark. There was an indistinct sound, as of voices raised in a chant. Not the harmonious sound of Gregorian chanting, the voices all blending in harmony but a harsher sound, punctuated by a drumbeat that went all the way through his aching head. The voices became more urgent, more pressing just as the pain grew and grew. It was unbearable, a burning sensation. Kon cried out desperately but the pain was always ripped from him in a flash of light leaving his head searing. And then – darkness so intense he felt he’d been blinded. With it a sudden unnerving silence and smoke, and curling thick and heavy on the smoke, the acrid smell of flesh—

There was a gentle crackle. Flames? Kon opened his eyes blearily and choked on smoke. Not the sour smell of his dream, but different, thicker –

Real.

The tattered remnants of the curtain fell. Kon watched them pool on the floor, dully. Flame didn’t work like that. The fabric was blackened, scorched by some great explosion of heat. Much like the damage wrought to wall-paper. It was still extant in part, singed and then – 

Nothing. It was simply extinguished by – what?

Kon rested one shaky hand against the doctor’s desk, miraculously unharmed by the wreckage around it, and drew himself up. The smoke was fast clearing, revealing a scene he would very much have preferred not to see. The doctor’s office was utterly devastated, but was destruction the sum of the chaos?

”Doctor? Doctor Hamilton?” 

No answer, and Kon’s heart sank. ”Doctor Hamilton, please—”

There was a leather shoe over-turned behind the collapsed chaise longue. Kon hefted the sofa, but there was no other sign of the doctor. Had he escaped? Or had it finally come to deat—

”Doctor Hamilton is in the garden.” The voice was uncompromisingly cold. The black clad figure of their coachman the night of Cobblepot’s ball – no, The Director, Kon corrected himself – regarded him from the doorway dispassionately. ”Unconscious but with only minor injury from smoke inhalation. A week in the country and he will be as healthy as he ever was.”

If any other man had spoken those words, Kon would have been relieved. The Director on the other hand watched him with an unfathomable stare. He was dressed entirely in black, as well turned out as a lawyer – or perhaps a vulture. Kon swallowed his relief with the smoke. ”The secretary—”

”Also outside. The ambulance will arrive soon for the maid and the valet, injured superficially trying to get in here to help Hamilton. You should leave before it arrives.”

Kon stared at him. Where the heavy pressure in his head had been there was only a strange lightness. He felt strangely empty. Drained. “But the wreckage. I should—”

”Apologize? Do you think you can, Conner Kent?”

Kon followed the remorseless gaze to the gaping hole that had been the doctor’s ceiling. ”I was on the couch,” he remembered. ”Doctor Hamilton said I should try and relax." He swallowed, hiding his hand behind his eyes, suddenly extremely ill. ”Hypnotic regression.”

”To get to the source of those strange migraines you’ve been having?”

That the Director had been monitoring Drake’s houseguests was in no way unusual. By the reputation of the man, he made even Drake’s considerable paranoia look like downright carelessness. Given the eventfulness of the six months Kon had spent in London so far, it would have been far more strange if he had not attracted the Director’s special notice. What made this so disconcerting was that Kon had been positive that he’d been able to keep his odd turns from Drake and Bart both. 

”You knew?” Kon gasped and then a fresh wave of nausea hit him and he realised. ”No – you expected this.” 

”Anticipated.” The ring on the Director’s black gloved hand glinted dull green. He took a step closer to Kon and this time Kon gripped the table to keep from falling down. “Your singular 'cousin' left this with me. He feared there would be an occasion when I should need it.”

“Clark!” Kon’s knees gave way abruptly. He pitched forward, managing to stagger his fall. His vision swam, refocusing on the thread of the flowery pattern, now speckled with burnt patches where debris had fallen off the ceiling. “Where—“

“Where is he?” The Director stepped into the room, the boards groaning slightly in protest. “Not in London. You won’t find the answers you’re looking for here.” 

Kon said nothing. As the director stepped closer it was increasingly harder to breathe or move or even think. He struggled to hold on to consciousness. 

“Clark left to find his answers elsewhere. You should do the same.” The Director paused, looking around the once fine office. “Don’t overstay your welcome. Next time we might not be on hand to intervene.” He nudged Kon with the end of his cane. “Pick yourself up and follow. Hurry up. It won’t take much longer for the fire engine to arrive.”

Kon swallowed down the bile in his throat and, taking a moment to steady himself, followed. He didn’t need to look back. The room was seared into his mind. 

It was a hard feat to get a nauseous, shaken American out of a burning house and into a cab without attracting attention but if anyone could do it, the Director could. His black suit quietly suggested doctor and his crisp manner and Kon’s haggard, shaken appearance did the rest. The cab whisked them away from the staring, curious crowds, and it wasn’t long before they were lost within the ranks of hundreds of identical carriages, winding in and out of the busy London streets. 

Less easily lost was the smoke which hung on Kon’s clothes. He couldn’t close his eyes without the room appearing again before him. “Thank you,” he said miserably. “If you hadn’t been there, Dr Hamilton might have been—“

The Director watched him coolly. “Protecting innocents from creatures such as yourself is my lifework, Mr Kent.” 

He was too numb for the barb to rankle – and he couldn’t argue with it. Kon bit his lip. It hadn’t been the first time—

“I suspect that today’s exhibition is not the extent of what you are capable of,” the Director continued matter of factly. “As such, I should like to tender you some advice.” 

Despite himself, Kon smirked vaguely. “Get the h--- out of Dodge?”

The Director’s stare was impassive as it always was. “The colonial turn of phrase is quaint as ever. Still, if this lapse of control were to repeat itself, it would be better if it took place somewhere less populated. There is a very good reason your ‘cousin’ chose to leave you in Kansas, I believe.” 

Kon took his life in his hands, plunged forwards with his question recklessly. “That’s the third time now you’ve mentioned Clark. Do you know anything of his current whereabouts? What he’s doing?”

“Your cousin came to Europe with the intent of finding answers, probably to the same questions you are now asking yourself. He did not confide in me. All I know is that he did not find the answers he sought in Europe and neither will you.” 

You old devil, Kon thought bitterly. The roughly jolting motion of the carriage was doing nothing for his stomach. That’s not half of what you know. But after his actions that morning … well, what reason had the Director to trust him? 

The abrupt jerk as the carriage pulled up was a surprise. The exterior of Drake’s townhouse looked blandly down at his disconcerted expression. Kon had imagined he was being taken to the docks to be escorted out of the country as quickly as possible. “Why—“

“Those in most danger are those who associate most closely with you, Mr Kent. I trust you will keep that in mind as you make your arrangements.”

“You’re letting me go?” 

The temperature of the cab got about three degrees lower. “You have two days, Mr Kent. I’m sure you can come up with a suitable reason to return home. If not …” He settled his gloved hands on the top of his cane meaningfully. “I’m sure I can arrange something. Now,” and the man’s smile was frosty. “I recommend you get the H--- out of Dodge.” 

Kon got. 

\--oOo—

A shower and a change of clothes did not do much for his piece of mind. Kon was thoughtful as he stirred the soup on the stove of Drake’s very modern kitchen. He had the house to himself, for which he was grateful. Drake’s arch knowingness and Bart’s effusive concern would have been untenable just then. 

And yet – the thought of leaving was strangely unwelcome. 

“It has to be done,” Kon told himself. “It’s for the best. After all, if Bart were hurt—“ (It was impossible for Kon to imagine Drake injured, even having seen it happen.)

And yet he didn’t feel like he was being entirely honest with himself. 

He left the soup to its own devices, wandering the empty house. The Director’s logic was sound. Even though the books on the shelves, the ornaments, the furnishings and drapes were all Drake’s, reflecting his tastes, there were subtle proofs of just how much he and Bart had intruded upon his territory. The Daily Planet was set on the reading table next to The Times and a scattering of French novels dotted the house wherever Bart had been when he’d tired of reading one. 

He wound up in the little first floor study that had become his room. Kon would not miss the cot. The rest of the room was a different story. The desk at which he’d written his thesis and was now working on the manuscript for a book. The bookshelves which Drake had allowed him to use as his own (and Bart’s novels had crept in somehow without Kon noticing). It wouldn’t take long to remove all traces of Kon’s presence from the room. And yet, he would very much be missed. 

What could he say? He couldn’t explain – they’d want to help and that would draw them in further. Was that why Clark had gone, without so much as an explanation or a goodbye? And yet to leave without word – well, it was five years on, and he was still searching. Drake and Bart were nothing if not resolute—

“D--- this!” Kon said with feeling, thumping his fist down upon the desk. 

The strange feeling of a shock was no less startling the second time round. Power surged and just as hastily abated as Kon recoiled. It was not entirely without effect however – a portrait had been set askew. 

Kon waited a moment to make sure nothing else was going to fall, explode or burst into flame at him, then reached to set the photo aright. “It would be just my luck if—“

He paused. His fingers had encountered paper. 

Turning the portrait over revealed a newspaper clipping pinned neatly to the back. Yellowed by time, it was nonetheless legible and Kon could easily make out the picture. Teams of waterproofed firemen tried vainly to douse a veritable fireball. The shadowy forms of people trapped within could just be made out. The headline below provided brief explanation. 

Tragic dirigible crash claims lives of London banker and family—

No, Kon decided, replacing the photo. Drake must certainly not get involved in this. 

\--oOo—

The carriage drew up easily, people moving aside quickly in deference to wealth, fashion, and Lord Queen’s rather liberal manner of steering. “Here you are – the Docks.” The Lord held the horses in place as Kon climbed down, collecting his bag. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait until you’re assured of a berth?” 

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you didn’t. I’m not terribly fond of goodbyes.” 

“I’m with you there, Mr Kent.” 

They shook hands, the horses shifting restlessly, already keen to be back out on the streets. “I’m very grateful to all the assistance you’ve given me.”

“Likewise. Mind you look up Roy when you get back. He’ll want to see you.” Queen took the reins in hand. “And what do I tell your Bartholemew and Drake when they come asking after you?” 

Kon smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait, but I’m sure they’ll understand.” 

Queen paused. “You’re in trouble? You’re pack now, Conner. Remember that. If you need help—“

“It’s nothing like that,” Kon assured him. “This is just something that I have to do.” He watched as Lord Queen drove off leaving a sense of finality in his wake. No going back now—

But then there never had been. 

The fashionable liners were now able to speed across the Atlantic in a matter of a week and a half. It wouldn’t be long at all and he could be home, sitting with Ma and Pa Kent of a summer’s evening, watching the sun sink below the horizon and smell the lulling scent of drying grass. 

And still Kon hesitated. He patted the roll of banknotes in his pocket. Payment for assisting the Foundation with a matter the week before. He hadn’t thought it was necessary then, but it was dashed useful now. So why did he feel as though –

“Being paid to leave?” 

The Director was smart enough to account for Kon’s pride. He had strong reasons for wanting him gone, stronger now that Kon knew about Drake’s parents’ death. It was very possible he’d arranged for Kon’s involvement and compensation to make sure he had the means to leave. Was it also possible that--?

No, Kon decided regretfully. He could not have predicted the migraines. Even so, he’d fixed on what was troubling him. Kon might have been manipulated, but he was d----d if the Director was getting it all his way. 

There was more of the usual Kon in his walk as he strode down the dock, away from the liners, toward the working boats. For the first time that day, Kon knew exactly what he had to do. 

\--oOo—

The Director was alone in his office when the phone rang. 

“Dick.” 

“Ship’s ready to sail. No sign of Kent – he didn’t take the room we held for him. I can wait--” 

“No. We need you in New York as fast as possible.” 

“But Kent—“

“Has made other arrangements. Working passage on a whaler.” 

“Better him than me.” As Grayson paused, the announcement of the ship’s impending departure came across the line. The thrum of passengers was clear. A public line in the first class longue, the Director surmised. “You’re sure of him?” 

“Conner Kent is no longer part of our equations. Concentrate on the task ahead of you. It will not be easy establishing a branch office in the States.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know. A nine day voyage with some of the prettiest women in Europe and me with so much reading to do on business matters and broking that I’ll be lucky if I have time to say so much as ‘how do you do’ to them.” 

“Knowing you, you’ll make the time.” 

“Yes, but that’s not the point, Bruce.” 

The use of the familial term gave the Director a rare moment of pause. He had fixed on this plan months ago. Knew the consequences and regretted them. And yet—

It must be. 

“Dick,” he said slowly. “Whatever happens, you know why we do this.” 

“You really are going to miss me. It’s just nine days. I’ll wire when I reach New York.” 

“Until then.” 

The Director replaced the handle but did not immediately take his hand from it. 

It was necessary.


	2. If one is master of one thing and understands one thing well, one has at the same time, insight into and understanding of many things.

For someone as accustomed as Drake was to dealing with all sorts of improbabilities, the fact that he could be so attuned to the minutiae of everyday life that a simple non-event could put him on edge is worthy of some consideration. 

“—the fate of your ice-cream aside, you simply cannot wage war against the seagulls, Bart.” Drake approached the steps to his house, step brisk and assured. Their trip to Brighton had been successful in more ways then one. A dark Satanic ritual had been prevented from taking place; they’d retrieved a valuable relic in one piece and they’d done all that in enough time that they were able to take a walk along the pier and reminisce. “Aside from anything else, it’d be impractical.”

Bart’s light grey suit was almost an inverted image of Drake’s slate grey, his steps quick with impatience as he followed. “When it is a question of justice,” he began heatedly. 

Drake smiled indulgently, letting his thoughts drift as he reached for the door. But the anticipation of making the report to the Director fell before a trivial point of no consequence. The door which he’d assumed would be open was not. 

“--hordes of the flying vermin, you’ll wish you’d taken my idea of an aerial armada more ugently — Tim?”

Drake released the door handle and patted in his pocket for his key. “Strange,” he said. “I wasn’t aware Conner had dinner plans.” 

Bart shrugged, rocking on his heels. “Do you think he’ll mind that I threw the rock we bought him at the sea-side vultures?”

Drake didn’t answer. He wasn’t aware of what he was looking for as he pushed the door open until he saw it – the key he’d given Conner so many months ago when they’d renewed their acquaintance. Dropped through the letterbox on his way out – a nice wrapping up of loose ends. “Ah.” 

The pause was uncharacteristic enough that Bart fastened on it immediately, elbowing into the doorway to glance from Drake’s expression to the floor. “He wouldn’t. Not without saying anything.” He paused, but when Drake didn’t rebut him, pushed his way past. “Kon? Kon!”

Drake paused, using his still gloved hand to drop the key in his pocket. Bart had already passed through the drawing room on his circuit of the house so he made his way directly to the kitchen. There was a pot of soup on the stove, cold and a neatly type-written note on the table, held in place with an upturned mug. 

“I couldn’t find him, and his suitcase is gone, but he’s left his suit and typewriter—“ Bart paused on the doorway, fixed on the letter Drake held. “Is that …?”

“A goodbye,” Drake confirmed, although he’d known it since the door had failed to open. 

Bart’s golden eyes were clouded as they frowned at Drake. “But why? I mean – we didn’t annoy him, did we? He was happy here—“

“Yes,” Drake said slowly. “I think he was.” They had all been. The American’s manner certainly had not been suggestive of any growing resentment, unease or homesickness. Or even the consciousness of any coming change, which given Conner’s penchant for over-sentimentality was … interesting. “I don’t think this was planned, Bart,” he said, giving the letter to Bart to read. 

“Dear Tim and Bart – he used our names! So he can’t be angry … churlish in the extreme to repay such hospitality by leaving without a word … there is soup on the stove, it just needs to be heated – soup! How can he think about soup at a time like this?”

Drake said nothing, resting his elbows on the table as he sat. His fingers, long and elegant, were pressed together steeple like, his habitual thinking pose. “Disjointed. Like I said, Conner didn’t plan this.” 

“A lot of guff about how much he’s enjoyed our company and – to look him up if we’re ever in Kansas?” The letter which Kon had taken considerable pains over was crumpled, and tossed across the kitchen. “He doesn’t even say why!”

“No,” Drake said thoughtfully. “He didn’t. I think he thought it would be obvious.” 

“Obvious!?” 

“Read the letter again.” Drake came to a decision and stood. “He’s left you his typewriter. Conner doesn’t expect to be coming back to London.” 

When he returned to the kitchen, the days’ papers in hand, Bart’s eyes were suspiciously bright and he looked away as Drake entered, setting the smoothed out letter printed side down on the table. 

“He left you his suit. He must know you’ve no hope of filling it.” 

Tim raised an eyebrow. He’d wondered at that too. “Mr Kent did have a rather exaggerated respect for my ability to disguise myself.” 

“You mean Roberta scared him,” Bart snickered, then immediately looked remorseful. 

Drake was having none of that, sliding The Daily Planet across the table. “I hope you’re not suggesting that Conner fled from a mere barmaid,” he said quellingly, shaking out The Times. “You do him a great disservice.” 

Bart bit his tongue, picking up the paper. “Sorry, Tim,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m in the mood for news right now. Maybe some poetry—“

“Don’t be a ninny. Conner was fine when he saw us off this morning. Nothing unnatural in his manner at all. That means whatever happened to provoke this happened in the interval we were gone.” 

Bart’s eyes registered comprehension and he looked down with renewed interest at the broadsheet. “And you think that something he read—“

“If it’s big news he wouldn’t think he needed to explain it,” Drake said, already working his way through The Times. “Pay special attention to the society pages.” 

“Marriage notices and engagements? Don’t you think we would have noticed?” 

“With Conner’s track record of proposals?” 

“He’s not actually ever been accepted though, has he?” 

They smirked at each other and went back to turning the pages of their respective papers. 

\--oOo—

“Tornadoes in the Mid West – could that be it? Where did Kon say to look him up?”

“Kansas.” Drake frowned. “It just might fit.”

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones outside caught their attention, and he stood, clapping Bart on the shoulder. “Keep at it. Make a note of anything that could be a possibility, no matter how small.”

“You’re going out now?”

“The artifact we recovered today is not going to be safe in this house. It needs to get to the Foundation as fast as possible, and I need to make a report.” Drake picked up his case. “Besides it’s possible that something else happened today – something that didn’t make the papers.” 

Bart looked up sharply. “The Director didn’t—“

Drake sighed. “Bart. The Director isn’t responsible for everything that happens in London.” He caught Bart’s eye to make sure the point was made. “Just most of it. All right? Anyway, I’ll ask about Conner.” 

The Driver of the Wayne coach didn’t glance down as Drake mounted the carriage. Employees respected Lord Wayne’s need for privacy or they did not remain employees long. 

Drake took his habitual seat and waited. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the carriage interior, but he knew the Director was there even if he couldn’t see him. “The amulet retrieved exactly according to plan.” 

“The Circle?”

“A group of amateurs who somehow managed to get their hands on the real thing. I could have handled it without back-up.” 

The Director grunted. It was probably approval or agreement – he did not raise his charges to need back-up. 

Drake waited. He had a feeling there was something more to come. 

“Your American friend. Conner Kent. Why would he want to leave London at such short notice?” 

This was a surprise. “Bart and I are looking into it. We’re as surprised as you are.” 

“Hn.” The Director said. “Tornadoes in the Mid-West.” 

“It seems Kent intends to head to Kansas.” 

“Logical. That’s where his parents are.” 

This was interesting. “He told Bart he was an orphan.” 

“And you accepted his word for it knowing what he was?”

Drake forced himself not to rankle at the rebuke. It would have been useful to have quizzed Kon more closely about his antecedents in retrospect. “Conner is a friend,” he replied mildly. “I thought he’d tell us one day of his own accord.” 

The light from a passing streetlamp caught momentarily on the ring that the Director wore. “You could have easily assumed surprise.” 

“Yes,” Drake agreed slowly. “I suppose I could.”

“As it happens, Kent did not fully mislead you. The family is adopted – if indeed he has any claim to them.” The Director paused. “When I first met his cousin he spoke definitively of being one of a kind as it were. I am not sure Conner Kent’s exact claim to his name – or indeed his relationship to the older Kent – if indeed a claim can be made. But I very much suspect that research was not the foremost reason your ‘friend’ made his trip to Europe.” 

“Luthor mentioned being acquainted with his cousin,” Drake remembered slowly. “He seemed to be expecting Conner, although that was not mutual. And he did spent a lot of time in the Foundation library on things unrelated to his thesis.” He hesitated. “And then there’s his current work.” 

“A Compedium of Known Demon Species and their Identifying Characteristics, wasn’t it?” Attuned to the darkness now, Tim could see the Director study him. “And why that particular subject? He does not seem the usual type.” 

“No,” Drake agreed. “Not Conner.” Not the man who would rescue a rooster from a Voduin ritual. “I got the impression he was looking for something.” 

The Director nodded. “I think you’ll find it is someone.”

The cousin? Drake nodded, filing the information away for later perusal. “Were you watching him? Oracle could have reached us in Brighton--”

The Director shook his head. “Dick spotted him at the docks. He sailed today.” 

Drake started at him, dismay unchecked. “Today? I – thought we had more time,” he said. “I would have liked to have said goodbye—“

The Director leaned forward to pat his arm. “Forgive me,” he said. “I wanted it this way. It – will be a very long time until Dick comes home.” 

They’d both gone months without seeing Grayson, though nine days of no contact was unusual. The Foundation’s strict regimine of reports and checking in wasn’t just business – it was how the family kept tabs on each other. Drake already felt the loss of the man he’d come to regard as an older brother …

But the Director’s tone intimated more. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing – yet.” The Director paused. “I’ve decided to make public the announcement of my choice of an heir.” 

Was that all? Drake leaned back in relief. Things lined up neatly now – he’d thought that he’d been kept at a distance that week. Clearly the Director had wanted to spend as much time with Grayson before he sailed. “Timed to Dick’s cruise so that by the time he arrives in New York the furore will have settled down? You do him a discredit, you know. He might not have the blood, but you’ve said yourself that he is better equipped for society than many an aristocrat—“

“I have not chosen Dick.” 

The carriage rattled around another corner, the even rhythm of the horse’s hooves momentarily checked. It wasn’t a moment until they had righted themselves, striding forward confidently on a surface that did not resound the same way cobblestones did. 

The circus was being widened, Drake remembered dully. Stones being taken up for construction. That would account for the lack of stone below the horses hooves. “Then who?”

“Tim.” For the first time in the conversation, the Director set down his cane, pursing his hands before him. “You’re already intimately acquainted with the Foundation’s organization. You may not have the years behind you that Dick does, but you came to it earlier. In time, I believe your capabilities will outreach his – and mine.” 

“That is – quite the compliment,” Drake said stunned. “But you’re not looking to retire any time soon. The Director-ship of the Foundation doesn’t need to be settled now … and even if it did, you wouldn’t need to adopt me to put me in charge.” 

The Director shook his head. “You must have full control,” he said. “Finances, Members, Records, everything. The only way to do accomplish that is to make you my legal heir. There are many of the Fellows who will challenge this, you see.” 

“Dick’s not going to be happy either.”

“Dick is busy. Even with Cassandra’s aid, America is going to take up all his attention.” 

That was highly dubious, but pointing it out would not have helped matters. Tim simply tried to still his reeling mind. “Bruce, I – I don’t know what to say. You’re—“

Sure wasn’t the right word. The Director was always sure. 

He reached over to grasp Drake’s hand. “We’ve know each other a long time now, Tim,” he said, and for a moment his voice was not that of the Director but that -- of a man. “Over the years, I have come to consider you very much as a son.” 

Gathering up his cane, he rapped once on the side that connected to the driver. As the carriage obediently drew to a halt, he climbed down. “This has come as a surprise. Give yourself time to think it over.” He drew his overcoat on over his suit, addressing the driver even as he kept his gaze on Drake. “I fancy a turn about the Park will boost my constitution. Take Drake home and wait for me here. Drive on.” 

It was a moonless night and the construction work had meant that this part of the Park was almost entirely without functioning streetlamps, and indeed had been the site of some very unsavoury incidents in recent weeks, but the Driver knew better than to argue. He flicked his whip, and the horses surged forward, happy to leave the park and it’s disquietening aura. Leaning forward to see out the window, Drake watched the Director’s rapid pace take him into the shadows. 

Of all the things he’d never expected—

“Very much like a son,” he repeated thoughtfully, testing out the implications. 

Drake was well accustomed to taking the unearthly, the untoward and the supernatural in hand. It was the subtleties of the everyday that so often took him by surprise. 

\--oOo—

The familiar chant, the heat and the light that seared into him. The voices screamed out frantically and were suddenly gone. Only darkness remained, darkness and the smoke, sick and heavy with murder—

And something thick and heavy that was poking his shoulder with increasing urgency.

“Conner? Conner! Wake up!”

Darkness, the smoke, sick and heavy with murder and Pa. Pa and his stick.

“Nngrh.” 

The blue sky was momentarily confusing. Kon could have sworn they’d been underground, a cavern … ? “Pa? Where – what happened?” 

Dropping his stick as Kon stirred, Jonathan Kent knelt to help him sit up. His weathered skin, tanned by years of exposure to the Kansas sun looked somewhat paler than usual, though nothing compared to the chalky white of Kon’s arm. Was he sick? He definitely didn’t feel at all well. “Pa—“

“I don’t know,” the elder Kent said, looking above Kon’s head. “But it was nothing good.” 

Kon followed his gaze, unable to hold back a cry of horror as he took in the scene. A circle of blackened grass, and on one side the mangled shape of a body. The head and forequarters had been within the circle of destruction, but the hindquarters and tail identified the victim as one of the Kent’s small herd of dairy cows. As the realisation of just what he’d been breathing in, Kon gagged, choking on guilt, nausea—

And found himself very abruptly meeting the floor. 

Kon picked himself up slowly. It had been years since the dreams – no, he corrected himself, memories – had troubled him. And now – well, it was only logical. You didn’t see – cause -- something like Hamilton’s office and not be affected. Giving the Foundation’s money to a hospital for burn victims had helped but – it wasn’t going to solve the problem. For that, he needed to know what was going on and how to stop it. 

Gingerly, Kon stretched out a hand to the wall for support and looked around him. The light was dim, but he could tell from the lack of traffic sounds that he was no longer in Drake’s townhouse – or indeed, even in the city. The constant traffic had been replaced by the swish of waves, the plaintive cries of the seabirds, and a regular activity above deck. 

That’s right. He’d taken passage on a whaler. 

Kon straightened his clothes, running his fingers through his hair in an effort to put himself in order. He hadn’t seen a mirror in the small, dark room. In fact, he hadn’t seen much at all. Kon paused to survey it. The hammock he’d fallen out of and his suitcase below it was the only signs of its use as a berth. It was clearly a storeroom – and Kon’s gaze followed the wooden hull (flammable) to the coiled rope (highly flammable), to the wooden barrels that had the distinct smell of oil about them (a disaster just waiting to happen) and swallowed. 

Perhaps he should have reconsidered his manner of return to the States. 

He was still trying to imagine the headlines – ‘Baffling disappearance of Whaler stuns nautic community. Ship and crew all in top condition when leaving Port of London states Harbour Master. No known cause of accident’ – when the bolt of the thick door to the storeroom was thrust back. 

Locked? Kon hadn’t been aware that he’d been locked in – and as the door swung open he received another shock. 

“Wilson?”

“Kent.” The man’s smirk was distinctly satisfied. “I was pretty sure that you didn’t ask the name of your Captain when you enlisted – and I see I was right.” 

Kon swallowed. He’d been in such a hurry that when he’d heard the Alicia was taking on hands and planned to depart on that evening’s tide, he’d signed on without question. “An oversight I regret,” he said tightly. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Slade wasn’t alone. A muscled lackey lurked behind him, a pistol in hand. “I expect you want me off your ship as quickly as possible.”

“On the contrary,” Wilson’s smile was urbane, his single eye glittering in amusement. He looked no different than he had during their brief encounter at Castle Cadmus. Apparently the big game hunter was equally at home on land as on sea. “I intend to see that you complete your voyage, Kent.” 

He nodded to his lackey and the man departed. Slade shut the door behind him then leaned on it. “Castle Cadmus was business. I don’t hold grudges over business. If nothing else, it’s unprofitable.”

“I admire your forthrightness,” Kon said somewhat taken aback. “If not your business ethics. But I do seem to remember you trying to kill a friend of mine. That seems somewhat personal—“

Wilson held up a hand. “Careful, Kent. When I kill something, it stays dead. You’re not insulting your Captain’s capabilities are you? Because we have a word for that at sea.” 

On second thought, Kon decided that he had no problems whatsoever with the capabilities of Captain Wilson. 

Wilson was only somewhat convinced. “Let’s get a couple of things straight now. I don’t tolerate disobedience. What I tell you to do, you will do. Your first voyage? Thought as much. I’ve told the first mate to keep an eye on you. You’ll listen to him as you would me. No questions and the first sign of anything clever or funny, and you’re locked in the brig. Hear me?” 

“Every word.” It was amazing how even a little absence could make the heart grow very fonder. Kon would have given anything to be standing on the front step of Drake’s townhouse right then. 

“That’s ‘Every word, Captain.’” Wilson sized Kon up and nodded, slowly, evidently coming to a conclusion that satisfied him. “Do your part and I’ll make it worth your while. I’m a hard master, and while I don’t tolerate idleness or insubordinance, I see my men get what they’re promised. You’ll be paid in full, and you’ll get to the States.” The uncompromising stare fixed Kon dead in the eye. “Luthor didn’t share secrets. Not even with business partners. He said nothing of you, but from what I saw at the Cadmus, you should be of great assistance, Kent. I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that this is no ordinary voyage.” 

“I had drawn the inference,” Kon agreed. “Not enough challenges left on land that you decided to turn to the Ocean? So what are we after? The Monster sighted in Greenland? Or perhaps the great white wha—“

“What did I say about being funny, Kent? You’re confusing fiction and fact. No, the prey I have my eye on this time is none other than the scourge of sailors known as The Aquaman.”


	3. An intelligent hell would be better than a stupid paradise.

Wilson was as good as his word. The first mate, a man with the face of a gargoyle, had obviously been told to teach Kon the ropes. He didn’t have time to plan an escape or figure out how he was going to contact Drake or Bart. He barely had time to breathe. 

“You know,” Kon said hauling rope, “if you keep this up, I won’t be jumping ship. I will be dead.” 

“Burial at sea is hardly an inconvenience, Kid,” Dubbilex replied, unmoved. “All supplies must be restored to their proper place after usage. Your sacrifice will be remembered fondly.” 

Kon snorted. “Any excuse to give the new guy more work, huh. I seem to remember hauling them out just this morning. And for what? Unless the crew played jump-rope the moment my back was turned, all that happen was that Wilson came out, declared they were rope and returned to his cabin.” 

“When aboard ship you refer to him as ‘Captain.’” 

“Captain Wilson. And what’s with him, by the way? Except for that highlight, he’s not been out of his cabin all day.” 

“The Captain no doubt has important calculations to make regarding our course,” Dubbilex reproved. His stern expression might as well have been carved from stone. It never flickered. Coupled with the man’s repellant appearance it was easy to see why Wilson might have deputised command of the crew to him. “We will hear from him in due time.” 

“And when will that be?” Kon wondered as they reached the hold where his solitary hammock hung. “When we’ve reached the open sea and there’s no hope of hailing another ship?” 

Dubbilex’s frown tightened. “You’re not employed to run your mouth, Kid.” 

The reaction was unexpected, Kon pausing in unloading the rope. “I’m right. The crew – they don’t know about the Aquaman business.” 

“They will be well rewarded for their time,” Dubbilex said. “And Captain Wilson’s reputation is well known. I doubt that very few of the crew had no inkling that this is not an ordinary whaling voyage.” 

That was definite reproof. “You can’t blame a man for not knowing how to do things on his first voyage,” Kon protested. “Not much call for whaling vessels in Kansas.” He turned to finish setting the rope down with the other thick coils. “Right then – what’s next? Something requires swabbing, I’m sure of that much.” 

“Kansas?” 

Part of the ship he didn’t know about? But no – for the first time, Kon saw a crack in Dubbilex’s stony visage. “My folks are farmers,” he explained awkwardly, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. “Sea-travel’s not exactly something we do a lot of.”

Dubbilex snorted, recovering his control. “I should think not. I’m watching you closely, Mr Kent. Remember that.” 

I’m hardly likely to forget it. Alone in his hammock, Kon wrote easily. Guy keeps looming up out of nowhere to tell me to get aft or haul keel. Whatever crypt Wilson chiselled him off, he certainly knew what he was doing. The ‘Gargoyle’ as the crew calls him is probably about the only person besides Wilson himself who’d have a chance of keeping order. I guess I’m in for a busy voyage, but at least it’s not going to be dull.

He paused. He could picture Drake’s smirk (“Really, Conner, you were expecting a pleasure voyage?”) or Bart’s interest (“A real gargoyle?”). It was easier than trying to imagine their reaction to his absence. Looking down at the paper in front of him, he hesitated. 

“Kid!” The door was shoved open, two of Kon’s fellow deckhands entering. 

Kon swung himself over the side of the hammock to meet them. “What can I do for you?” 

The first caught sight of the paper and sneered. “We’re toasting the success of the voyage amidships. Capn’s given all hands a double allowance o’ grog for the night. Of course, if you’d rather be reading a book—“

“And miss out on the grog I’ve been hearing so much about?” Kon set the letter down and stood. “Lead the way.” 

“There’ll be no grounds for any mention of book-learning,” the second man warned as the first folded his arms. “And on the ship, officers excepted, you’re only as good as your harpoon arm.” 

“Easy, gentlemen.” Kon held up a hand to stay their words. “I may not know stern from starboard, but I do know a port from a whiskey.” 

“Oh,” the second man was amused. “Not too proud to drink with us, ey?” 

“Drinking is probably the only thing on this voyage I am qualified to do,” Kon said with feeling. 

His ready compliance surprised them, but the hostility generated by his perceived rank evaporated when it emerged that Kon had been taught to read by his cousin and that the Kent’s had about 100 acres and Kon with no grounds to inherit, they became a lot more welcoming, assuring Kon that the voyage would make a man of him. The grog helped. True, it was nothing to write to Drake or Bart about, but Kon, raised on Smallville Moonshine, held his own with even the more senior members of the crew, carousing well into the night. When he was eventually ordered to his hammock, he could climb into it knowing that he had acquitted himself well. 

He felt significantly less pleased with himself the following morning, but given the majority of the crew were similarly hungover, this only helped Kon's on board standing. One of the two men who had been so hostile the night before, had even clapped him on the back and congratulated him on making it out of his berth. “More than we can say for the cook,” he confided. “Not that I expect you’ll be thinking of food.” 

“Ha.” Kon was trying very hard not to think of food. 

Luckily even the stony Dubbilex had seemed to take pity on him and that morning’s chores were all above deck, where the crisp sea breeze helped Kon clear his head. The loss of breakfast might have gone unmourned but by mid-afternoon, he was starting to think he might be able to go for something to eat. 

He wasn’t alone in that. 

“Still nothing? And here the First Mate was telling me what a tight ship we run here.” 

“Skipper’s not wrong. Cap’n won’t be best pleased with this,” the sailor agreed with a hint of trepidation. “I should not like to be the cook today.” 

That trepidation had spread to the rest of the crew. Even as growling stomachs grew more uncomfortable, no one ventured a complaint. Every time the door to the officer’s quarters opened, the men flinched, relaxing at the sight of the ship’s navigator or Dubbilex’s set expression. 

And if they were relaxing at the sight of that face, things had to be dire indeed, Kon decided. 

Finally the dreaded moment arrived. All hands were called on deck and the sotted cook dragged out of the galley. Unbeknownst to the officers, the cook had decided to treat his hangover with the remainder of the grog, and was clearly in no fit state to cook, let alone face such a challenge as standing before Wilson’s contemptuous gaze. 

“I did not expect to have to make an example so early into the voyage,” the Captain said coolly. “But I am left with little choice. Put him in irons and stow him in the brig until he’s sober enough to appreciate his situation. In the meantime, what’s his assistant been doing?” 

“I had a word with him to prepare something for the crew,” Dubbilex reported. “But that was an hour ago.” 

“Is that so.” Wilson’s single eye fell on Kon. “Kent. See what’s keeping him. Mess isn’t served in an hour it’ll be you that answers for it.” 

A strategy designed to make him the crew’s whipping boy? Or was Wilson hoping that Kon’s lack of nautical knowledge was made up for in other areas? It was hard to tell, though as Kon made his way through the cramped mess to the door of the galley, he rather suspected the former. He certainly was not feeling very lucky. 

This feeling was only increased by the greeting that he received upon entering the galley. Kon yelped, flattening himself against the door.

“I surrender!”

The kitchen assistant considered him. He was young, oriental in appearance and dress, black hair gathered in a tight bun at the base of his neck and mouth full and sullen. He raised an eyebrow at Kon’s declaration, the second knife poised and ready to throw. 

Breathe, Kon reminded himself. “Kent. New recruit. General deck hand, whipping boy and now assistant to the Cook’s assistant. First mate sent me to see if you needed a hand.” 

The Assistant didn’t speak but after a moment of thought nodded and with a fluid motion planted himself in front of Kon and tugged the knife just centimetres shy of Kon’s ear from the thick wood of the galley. 

About to breathe out in relief, Kon noticed that the wood of the doorframe was covered in dozens of such nicks. “Do this often?” He flinched as the knife was brandished at him, edging his way towards the pot bubbling away in the centre of the room. “Just making small talk. I’ll take a look at lunch, see how you’re getting on.” 

The Assistant didn’t speak but was very expressive all the same. A shrug indicated that Kon could do as he liked, the man more interested in the state of his throwing knife. 

It was hard to look away from the sharpened edge of that knife, but Kon forced himself to consider the pot and its contents. They were not cheering. 

“This is not soup. This is not remotely soup. I didn’t think it was possible not to make soup – have you ever even eaten soup?”

The flat, unimpressed stare of the Assistant was not reassuring, particularly as he’d taken to sharpening the knife he’d already thrown at Kon once, but Kon didn’t mind, using a ladle to fish out the vegetables from their watery grave. 

“For one thing, you need a stock. For another – you got to chop the contents up first. Look at this turnip.” The offending vegetable was brandished at the Assistant. “How do you expect the men to eat this with a spoon? I tell you what, it is really lucky for you that I chose to blindly sign up on this ship, or you could be joining the Cook down the brig.” Vegetables removed, Kon gingerly tested the remaining liquid. “This could be a decent stock, when it’s reduced down,” he conceded. “Turn up the heat, let it boil down. Any herbs we can add to it?”

Herbs were produced as well as rock hard ship’s biscuits that Kon predicted would soften when dunked in the soup. “All we got to do know is cut up the vegetables into edible pieces and let it cook down,” he decided, satisfied that the soup could yet be saved. “I’ll need a knife—“

He had just time to regret that before the blade thudded into wood just inches from his hand. Kon swallowed. 

“The reason the Cook was drinking,” he said. “That was you, right?” 

Unbelievably, luncheon was a success. Kent and the absent assistant were congratulated roundly by the crew and even the frosty Dubbilex conceded that they’d outdone expectations. 

“We’re neither of us in the brig tonight,” Kon reported to his silent company as he returned with the soup pot. “And we got enough leftovers here that we can start a stew for tonight. Best to try and use the beef in the hold first, save the salt pork until we’re out of other options.” 

Perched on the back of one of the two chairs, the Assistant turned his sharp, hazel eyes on Kon. “We?” he said with a deliberate precision that was interesting and a tone that was – rather more mellow than Kon had been expecting. 

“We got promoted. You’re the new Cook, will be the remainder of the voyage, and I’m your Assistant when I’m not helping on the deck.” Kon set the soup pot down. “The Old Cook’s being put ashore the next port we stop at.” 

The Assistant took his promotion with equamity. “Kent?”

“That’s right.” Kon held out his hand. “Conner Kent. How do you do?”

He wasn’t sure what urge had prompted the gesture – knife wielding maniacs didn’t generally shake hands – but as he hesitated, awkwardly, hand out-reached, the Assistant took it. His grip had the suggestion of strength and his fingers were calloused.

“Call me Cass.” 

“Cass,” Kon said with relief, letting go of the handshake. He had been expecting something altogether more unpronounceable. Somehow, he felt like they’d left the most dangerous waters. “That short for anything?”

“Cassandra.” 

About to assess the herbs on the shelves, Kon paused. “That is – generally speaking a girl’s name,” he said very carefully. 

Cass looked up at him calmly. The knife glittered in her lap. Kon hadn’t even heard her draw it, and his hearing was usually keen. 

“Nice name.” Kon returned to his hunt for bay leaves.

\--oOo—

“Anything?” 

Drake waited until their cab was in traffic before replying. “As a matter of fact, I did find something.” He held out the piece of folded paper to Bart. “Telegram sent yesterday evening from the docks.” 

Bart frowned as he studied the telegram. “Definitely Kon, but – I didn’t know he had parents.” 

“Adopted. According to the Director.” Drake carefully pulled off one white glove after another. Bart looked up quickly but Drake forestalled the question with a look. “As surprised as we are.” 

“Yes,” said Bart, disbelief evident. “And I’m the Archbishop’s sister.” 

Drake frowned. A real son might protest that. That was part of the filial bond, after all, that mark of respect for father from son. He respected Bruce as he respected no other man … 

And yet rather than contradict Bart, he simply said, “Read it out loud. I want to hear it.” Contradicting would mean explaining, and Drake – Drake wasn’t yet ready to explain.

Bart looked at him curiously, well acquainted with Drake’s excellent recall, but complied. “Ma, Pa, it happened again, stop. Coming home, stop. Conner, stop.”

“Happened again—“

“That doesn’t sound like tornadoes.” 

“No,” Drake agreed. “It does not. The two of you were closer. He never—“ 

“Not once.”

“Hum.” They were back to treading previously covered ground. “Whatever it was that happened had to have happened the morning we were in Brighton and was serious enough to prompt Conner’s prompt return.” 

“But there was nothing!”

“Nothing obvious,” Drake corrected him. “There were five incidents in the paper and two without that could have been cover-ups. The anarchist attack on the Harley Street doctor, for example. Hamilton is not know for extreme views. It would be very easy for a bomb to be thrown in a sitting room window and the letter by a secret society claiming responsibility easily forged or invented.” 

“Sometimes I forget how your mind works,” Bart said slowly. “It’s like a magician act. You think you’re looking at a single ring and then there’s five of them and handkerchiefs.”

His intellect had not previously been compared to a conjuring trick. Drake was conscious of feeling rather nonplussed. “Not all of us have your instinct, you know. We make up for it in other ways.” 

“Paranoid delusional ways.” 

“Which one of us wanted to get out of bed at 5 am to search the house for errant pixies?” 

“It was just as probable as your anarchists.” 

“I didn’t say they were real hypothetical anarchists.” 

“I didn’t say they were real errant pixies.”


	4. There is a great deal of unmapped country within us.

Waking up while it was dark to light the ship’s stove and then scrub the decks and pull ropes was hardly Kon’s preferred start to his day, but winter mornings on the Kent farm had given him some experience at least in getting his body up and moving while his mind was still waking up. In fact, the biggest difference was not the nature of the work, or the effort involved, but the—

“Smell. I’m asking you, Cass. You’ve voyaged before. What’s the superstition about bathing?” 

Cass gave him a look that he was learning to interpret not as imminent death but something nearer to annoyance. “Water. Drinking.” 

“Conserving supplies? I’m all about that. But not at the expense of losing a sense to it. I tell you, when mucking out the dairy barn is a more attractive option than serving thirty unwashed sailors their morning victuals, something is wrong.” 

Cass shrugged with the casual heartlessness of her sex, indifferent to Kon’s suffering as always. She was sitting cross-legged in an attitude of calm, no longer feeling the need to watch every move Kon made as he used the small galley kitchen. As long as he didn’t make the mistake of reaching for a knife without receiving permission, things were relatively calm. In fact, the nightmare had not repeated itself. 

Perhaps the sea-life was good for him? Or was being confronted by the prospect of his own immediate demise if he forgot himself and reached for the chopping board was so much more immediately terrifying that nightmares couldn’t compete? 

Either way, they’d come to an understanding. Kon talked and cooked. Cass watched and remembered. For all that she seemed to be ignoring him, she’d pulled off a very credible stew when Kon had been called to the deck to help change sails. Now, as they began the dishes of the morning meal, Kon fancied she seemed even tolerant. 

“And just between the two of us? I think the cattle have the better table manners. Sure, they chew the cud for hours but at least they chew – Dubbilex, sir! I wasn’t including you in my observations—“

“Of course not, Kid.” From the sound of the first mate’s tone, he had been forced out of bed far earlier than he wanted to be either. “Tell me, is there ever a time when you are not, as you put it, airing your ‘observations’?”

“Someone’s got to make up for the Cook’s lack of verbosity, and since I am his official assistant…” 

“Charming. But I’d advise you to give your mouth a rest. You’re wanted up on deck.” Dubbilex turned from Kon to give the Cook a meaningful look. “Both of you. Captain’s orders.” 

“Come to think of it – I haven’t seen you up on the deck before. Or even as far as the Mess,” Kon noted as they climbed the narrow ladder to the main deck. “The shy type?” 

“Talk,” Cass said curtly from behind him.

“Always happy to oblige—“

“Too much.” 

“Oh.” 

As it happened, it was not them that the Captain wanted but everyone. The crew had been duly rounded up onto the deck, the officers – all men who had served Wilson before and had the battle scars to prove it, loomed obviously from the poop deck – the perfect position to fire down on the crew should the crew resist, Kon realised with trepidation. Either association with Drake had made him unduly suspicious or Wilson planned to announce the true purpose of the voyage. 

He was nearly right. 

“More famous even than the Flying Dutchman, or the demon dog of the sea that eternally haunts the stricken vessel Krypto, the Aquaman is the scourge of the seven seas,” Wilson roared. “To rid the waters of this unholy menace is the purpose of this voyage, and all men who throw their harpoon in with me, will not only be paid well, but be made legends, entering the nautical lore as proud heroes, victorious in their quest.”

The men roared back. Wilson had been right. His reputation had preceded him and the sailors considered the eventual glory fair payment for the hazards ahead. But there was one thing they weren’t prepared for. 

“You know my reputation of course. My deeds have been reported in newspapers, in taverns, in hushed voices after dark. Every word of it true – I assure you.” Wilson’s smile was supremely confident and cruel and even without the memory of Castle Cadmus behind him, Kon would have felt misgivings. “But even I do not hunt the Aquaman alone. Gentlemen, I would like you to meet the final member of my crew. The hunter of the Cambridge Changeling, the slayer of the Norwich vampire, the devastator of the Alzenau Creature, my right-hand man.” Wilson motioned and the slim figure standing silently beside him stepped forward, slipping the hood that marked his face off. “My daughter, Rose.” 

“A woman!”

“A woman?” Kon’s elation did not appear to be shared by the rest of the crew. His interjection went unheeded amongst the murmur of unease and one or two outright protests. 

“It’s bad luck to ‘ave a woman aboard. They bring ill fortune—“

“Sure sign of the devil, women.” 

“’Ad a feeling about this voyage in my bones, I did. No good will come o’this—“

“Here here,” said the man to Cass’s left and crossed himself fervently. 

The cook’s expression was as impassive as ever. Kon thought about saying something, but didn’t. 

The sharp report of Wilson’s gun fired overheard brought attention back to him with an uneasy jolt. “Let’s get two things clear,” he said. “I’m a man of deeds, not idle chit-chat. Facts interest me, not superstitions. We’re in the 19th century, men. The age of reason, science—“ 

“Whalebone brassieres, lace undergarments—“

“—no longer the Dark Ages where man was ruled by fear of what he did not know. Past captains were clearly unwilling to have women on board and thus encourage an air of licentious and jealousies. The old superstition has no other explanation than sheer practicality. You need not fear on that account, men.” Wilson paused and his manner became only more fearsome. “Likewise, we shall have no reason to be concerned for the morale of the vessel. Any man foolish enough to approach my daughter is warned he takes his life in his hands when he does so.” Wilson clapped his daughter companionably around the shoulders, in a way that Kon was sure that many a lesser man would not have withstood. “In Ghana, she killed a man with her bare hands.” 

Rose Wilson had the white hair of her father and the same eye-patch masking her lost eye. “Please, Father,” she said with a smile as cold and cruel as a knife to the stomach. “That was Beirut.” 

Kon considered Miss Wilson’s slender figure, displayed to advantage in the masculine garb she wore. Curves that were only accentuated by her rough shirt and vest continued down to a slim waistline, a twin pair of pistols holstered on her hip. Kon regretfully decided that this was no mere intimidation tactic on Wilson’s part. “Well, it was a good one and a half minutes while it lasted—“

He became cognizant of the look that the Cook was giving him. “While it lasted. I have no wish to end this voyage in a coffin.”

“Coffins are reserved for officers, Kent.” Dubbilex had also overheard. “If you seriously do not have a death wish, I suggest that you return to work.”

“All work and no play.” And to think he could have been riding one of the fastest cruisers in the world, partaking of all manner of on board delights … There were two ballrooms on the Lucania alone. “Not coming, chief?”

Cass responded with a slight shake of her head. She was watching the small group of officers clustered around Wilson and his daughter on the poop deck. “After.”

“Don’t get carried away enjoying the view,” Kon said, patting her shoulder as he headed towards the galley ladder. “Before you know it, all that sea air will rush to your head, and you might – heaven forbid – smile at something.”

Dubbilex spoke just as he reached the ladder. “Remember, Kent. I’m watching you.”

“As if I could forget,” Kon muttered, climbing down the stairs. “What with you tucking me into bed every night and everything.” He was the only member of the crew locked into his room at night, a fact which continued to rankle. Logically, Kon appreciated that Wilson wasn’t about to trust him but the hold had a decided odor and Kon had never felt easy sleeping there after he’d noticed the oil stores.

Not that the galley felt much better. The small room seemed d--nably close after the deck, and Kon couldn’t help but find himself restless and on edge. It wasn’t until he was finished the porridge dishes and onto the hash that would be the crew’s lunch that he realized.

It was the first time he’d been entirely alone since the voyage started. The hold didn’t count, not when he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But this—

This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

The night of Cobblepot’s ball, something had happened. A lot of somethings, actually, and between the run-in with the Vampyre, Drake’s collapse and Mia’s confession--

“Mia.” 

It had only been a few weeks before the voyage that Kon had stopped wearing mourning. It seemed years ago – and then sometimes it caught him suddenly, unexpectedly close. Less frequently now, thanks to Drake who had a way of reading silences and manufacturing the appropriate distraction, and to Bart who might be too heavy-handed with his sympathy but was always willing to talk about her or listen to Kon talk. But then grief was another thing they’d had in common. 

Kon hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on that – letting out a shaky breath he reminded himself that Drake and Bart could not help him with what lay in front of him. He had to do that himself – starting now. 

A large jar of dill pickles was set down on the table in front of him and Kon sat down, wiping his palms on his trousers and trying to will himself confident. 

That night in the cellars below Cobblepot’s mansion something had happened. The shock of seeing Anita attacked by Bart. He’d been desperate to help and the impulse had seemingly leapt out of him, knocking Bart back hard enough to throw him down the passageway. At the time he’d put it down to residual energy left by the Voduin, but then it had happened again in Drake’s own townhouse, and if there was anywhere less likely to be a storehouse of potent Voduin magiks just waiting to be triggered, it was that supremely proper building. 

So if it wasn’t magic—

“Only common ground in both cases – me.” Focusing his attention on the jar, Kon tried to reach out mentally. He imagined the motion necessary to undo the lid, projecting that on to the jar with all the concentration that he could muster.

The pickle jar was having none of it. 

“Rather glad I didn’t air that theory before Drake and Bart. They’d never have let me hear the end of it.” Inwardly, Kon was relieved. It meant something to have that small proof of his own normality – even if it left a lot of questions unanswered still. “Dreams and that odd business at Hamilton’s getting to me. That’s all.” Kon sighed as he abandoned his attempt, placing his hand down on the galley table to steady himself as he stood. “Nothing more than imagination—“ 

The rush of pent up energy was immediate and extreme. The air fairly crackled with it. Kon felt it leave him in a dizzying rush and knew without looking that the metallic clutter was the lid of the pickle jar flying free with such force it had been flung across the galley. 

Shakily, Kon looked from the pickle jar to his hand. Contact – was that it? But how – what … ? Extending a tendril of awareness through the table, Kon reached out and the jar lurched towards him. 

He snatched his hand away from the table as if he’d been burnt, but the damage had been done. He knew. “Magic doesn’t travel over water.” With a groan, Kon slid down the galley wall to sit on the floor. “I was really hoping it was residual Voduin—“

The footstep was followed immediately by the metallic sound of jar and lid becoming reattached. As Kon looked up, shocked and startled, the jar was set in front of him, Cass coolly staring him down. 

Kon’s shaky exhalation would not have convinced anyone of anything but his own guilt. “I – this. Don’t jump to any conclusions—“

“Again.” 

“What – again?” 

Cass folded her arms and waited. She was perched so close that she was very nearly on top of him, a fact that was having no good effect on Kon’s peace of mind. 

He tried the restorative properties of a deep breath. “You – really have a way about you. A gentleman nobly offers his assistance in your work, incidentally saving you from the brig in the meantime, not so much as a ‘how do you do,’ but you observe a gentleman doing scientifically impossible things with a pickle jar and now he’s interesting—“

“Kent.” Cass’s tone was impassive as ever. “Talk—“

“I know, I know. Talk too much.”


	5. Life is the flower for which love is the honey.

The light woke Drake. 

The curtains of his bedroom were pulled back; the full moon streaming in with all the restraint and subtlety of a lighthouse . He had just a moment to register Bart’s absence before he caught sight of him, perched at the end of the bed, back towards the moonlight. Watching him?

“Bart? You—“

“Vampyres can heal in the light of the full moon,” Bart said conversationally, and although Drake could not see him, he was pretty sure that Bart’s expression did not match his tone. “You said that once.” He paused, then added. “You said it here. To Conner.” 

Drake sat up. Years of training at the Director’s guidance had enabled him to hone his reflexes to react instantly to any emergency, whether he was waking from restful slumber, drug-enduced unconsciousness or all manner of mystical enchantments. 

He was going to need all that training now. “I didn’t think you remembered.” 

“I didn’t think I did either. I’ve been thinking about things. A lot.” 

Bart thinking was almost never a good sign. “How long have you been awake?”

“Without waking you?” Bart reached out to nudge Drake with his foot. “Not long at all. You don’t have to worry about your reputation slipping.” 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Bart sighed. “I know. I – You’ll think it awfully weak of me. I wanted to feel better and I remembered the moonlight.”

“You miss Conner that much?”

“Of course, I do,” Bart sounded affronted. “He’s – well. He’s important. You know that.” 

There was a time – not very long ago in fact – where Bart’s continued insistance on bringing up the American would have rankled. Now – 

The house did seem bigger, more empty without him. 

“I miss him too, of course. But Bart, you have to accept that even if we find what made Conner leave, and track him down … There’s the possibility that he wants to be somewhere else.” 

“Tim!” Bart’s reply was choked, angry. “Don’t joke about things like that!” 

“It’s not my habit to joke about such things,” Drake reminded him. “And as much as I miss Conner, I can’t help but remember – he bought very little while he was in London. Nothing that he would have minded leaving. No furniture, and whenever I spoke of replacing that cot in the study with a real bed he talked me out of it. He was never planning to stay—“ 

“Don’t say it. I won’t believe you even if you do. Kon is – he belongs here. With you, with me. He’s mine—“

Bart hadn’t meant to say that. Maybe he hadn’t even known he would. Tim pressed in quickly.

“Yours? You two never—“

“No,” Bart agreed. “But he did propose to me. More than once.”

“He proposed to Beth. Slight difference.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, he was my friend first. We’ve got the most in common. We like novels, dancing, getting to the Foundation’s monsters before they do—“

“You’ve plenty of friends who share those interests,” Drake pointed out, refraining from commenting on the last. “Even plenty of non-human friends. Lord Queen’s pack includes many young weres—“

Bart shook his head. “It’s more than that. The wolves … they belong. They bicker and argue but when it comes down to it, they’re – well, ‘pack’ as Lord Queen says. It’s the same with you and the Foundation. When it comes to business, you all do the same thing. Close ranks.”

Drake rested his arms on his knees. This was the most honest conversation they’d had on the subject. “You know why. The Director’s methods …”

“I know. And I know that if it was anyone else, you wouldn’t care for method, but when it’s him it’s different.”

It was on the tip of his tongue, then, to tell Bart, but Drake still hesitated. “And you were hoping to find in Conner that sense of – family?”

Moonlight glittered dangerously in Bart’s eyes. “If you laugh at me—“

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bart’s words had given Drake much to consider. There were aspects of Bart and Conner’s relationship that troubled him, even made him jealous. Put in these terms –

Analytically he could appreciate that Conner was more comfortable expressing sentiment and casual affection than himself – at least publically. But Tim and Bart had developed other ways. Drake stretched out his hand to squeeze Bart’s, drawing him back towards himself and the warmth of the bedlinen. “You know what you mean to me, Bart.”

“I do,” Bart allowed himself to be drawn, resting his head in the curve of Tim’s neck and settling in close. “You promised to decapitate me, after all.”

“You know I will.”

“Mm,” Bart said, and Drake was gratified at the certainty in his tone and the pliance with which Bart shifted into Drake’s touch. “You took the axe with us to Paris. Sharpened and everything. Kon couldn’t do that.” Bart’s finger traced the line of Drake’s jaw with satisfaction – then withdrew. “Kon might not need to.”

This tight fist of emotion wasn’t jealousy. This was far beyond jealous.

“I mean, we none of us know what he is,” Bart continued blithely unaware. “So it’s possible.”

“Possible.”

“He stopped the Vampyre from hurting Anita, you know. Even if he never told me how. I meant to ask her about it, but it was difficult when she flinched every time I moved suddenly, so somehow it never really seemed like the appropriate moment.” Bart mused quietly. “And now she’s gone back to the States too.”

Drake, who had never seen eye to eye with Miss Fite reflected darkly that the States was the best place for her. She’d never taken to London’s strict standards of decorum and he was pretty sure that the dent in the oaken boards of his entrance way was somehow due to her interference.

“Kon got a few letters from her. We could write, see if she’d help us find him.” Bart paused. “You’re awfully quiet, Drake, even for you.”

“Am I?”

Bart stilled. “You’re not going to be provoking about this, are you? Because I would have thought it was obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Perhaps provoking was too mild a word. You know the Vampyre,” Bart sat, leaning over Drake. It was just light enough for Drake to be able to make out his mouth, expressive as always. “Better probably than me. I’ve never actually seen him just the bits after. Anyway.” Bart’s mouth hesitated, then firmed, then continued in one of his rapid transformations. Drake levered himself up on one elbow to listen. “You’re linked to him in blood. You both are. Not many people survive a feeding Vampyre and even fewer make a bond with him. We’re linked, the three of us now, by blood. That’s – well. That’s not the sort of thing you can forget and blithely go off on your own to America. That’s how I know we need to find Kon.”

“Because if we don’t, the Vampyre might go hunting again?” Bart’s words had reminded Drake of just what had happened in that room that night. The memory was sobering, cutting through his anger. It was true, the Vampyre had adopted a very proprietry atmosphere towards the two of them but had seemingly been satisfied merely by their presence. Surely him being jealous of Conner was as fruitless as … a blanket envying a pillow. He got more of Bart after all. “Bart, do you suppose that’s it? The Vampyre influencing you subconsciously?”

Bart hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, mouth drooping in defeat. “All I know is that I don’t feel right without him here. I feel anxious. Restless.”

“If you wanted to look for Conner,” Drake said slowly. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

Bart paused. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say, “Well, I would not be a responsible member of the Foundation if I let you run amok amongst our American cousins with no warning,” Bart poked Tim in the ribs. “Are you sure you’re you? I mean – I know the Foundation doesn’t use magic for its own ends but maybe they scienced you into thinking you’re an obedient Foundation golem or something.” 

“It’s worse than that,” Drake said slowly. He thought he saw a pattern. “Lord Wayne’s adopting me.” 

\--oOo—

The clicking of the lock stirred Kon from deep sleep. He grumbled, trying fruitlessly to burrow deeper into his hammock. “I swear, morning gets earlier every morning …” 

Dubbilex’s usual caustic opinion was unforthcoming – and Kon had yet to find himself dumped onto the hold floor. Aware that something was very wrong, Kon raised himself from the hammock. Some instinct told him that the First Mate had not decided to take Kon’s advice on his bedside manner to heart, so what—

Someone was standing right beside him. 

Kon started, but the hand slammed into his mouth before he could scream. 

“Me,” Cass said, the only noise she’d made so far. “You. Going.”

Kon went. 

It wasn’t until they were both on deck that his ability to breathe reasserted itself. “And here I thought I would never be glad to have Dubbilex loom over me,” he muttered, leaning against the mast to steady himself. “I hate to be the one to say it, but your method of flirtation might need a little fine-tuning—“

Cass said nothing, merely radiated disapproval. It was astonishing how palpable her look could be, even in moonlight and Kon glared, still not happy about being pulled from sleep – only to abruptly reconsider. 

In the moonlight Cass’s attire was visible. She had discarded her usual tunic and trousers for a tight fitting suit of – something dark. Leather? What it was wasn’t as important as what it did – and what it did was silhouette Cass’s feminine curves perfectly against the light of the moon. 

“So—“

“Later.” Cass beckoned him along the deck towards the poop deck and the officer’s quarters. “Now.” 

Sneaking through the officer’s quarters was enough to put an end to any idle conversation. Cass stopped in front of a room that sported not one but two locks. Kon was wondering what the reason for her pause was when she made a twisting motion with her hands. 

Now I get it – not me, but my little parlour trick. Kon tried to feel annoyed but as he touched his hand to the door all he felt was nervous. Cass had made him open and close the pickle jar for a good half an hour until she’d been satisfied, but this was the first test of his … whatever it was … under duress. One mistake and the entirety of the ship’s officers would be on them. I hope she knows what I’m doing … because I don’t.

He didn’t need to think about unlocking. He just willed and felt and the locks clicked open. Locks and something else. “Was that a mechanism on the inside – alarm triggered if both locks aren’t opened simultaneously?”

Cass didn’t answer, slipping through the door. Kon followed, careful to push the door shut behind him. “Two locks. Two people with a key each – Wilson and his daughter? Just dandy. The two people on this ship we most don’t want to anger and we are breaking into a room they clearly don’t want anyone getting into – why?” 

Cass – as was her usual wont – was ignoring him. She seemed to be carefully considering the room around her. It was – Kon had to admit – quite the collection. “Sea-charts, yes. Scrimshaw, logical – if odd.” He paused a moment to study the representation of The Aquaman carved painstakingly into the whale tooth. “The diving suit … well, better the Captain and his lovely daughter than me. But the rest of it …” Kon trailed a hand along the meticulously created map to crouch before the vials that currently had his companion’s attention. “This looks like poison. And more poison than needed for even the lengendary Aquaman. This is enough—“ 

Kon glanced over his shoulder to the table with the map behind them. 

“For a city. An – underwater city.” 

Cass’s silence spoke volumes. 

Kon sighed. And here he’d thought he’d left the histrionic adventures in London. “For most explorers, finding Atlantis would be the pinnacle of their life’s work. Not the legendary Slade Wilson, though. No, he has to go and want to murder it.”

“I suppose it was inevitable. Talk for long enough, and eventually even you might say something of sense.”

Kon started but before the exclamation could leave his throat, Cass shot out an arm and muffled him. She never took her eyes from the figure in the doorway.

“Contact?”

Dubbilex glanced at the door still partially ajar behind him and as Kon watched with an increasing feeling of being well out of his depth, it swung quietly shut. “It was I who asked for help. Wilson is – I believe that in his craze for vengeance he no longer cares what he will sacrifice.” He studied the two of them thoughtfully. Unless either of you object, perhaps we should communicate this way.

Cass had let go but not relaxed her guard. She stood ready, waiting – whether to fight or for some signal. “Which way would that be?” Kon complained. He realized at once he heard his own voice, strangely loud in the tense atmosphere of the small room. Before, was that--?

In your head? Dubbilex lowered his head in acknowledgement, and Kon was surprised to make out horns. I am gifted psychically. Communication through the medium of thought is one of my abilities. The other … Dubbilex glanced at the door behind them. I believe we share.

He did the pickle jar thing with the door too!?

Yes, he did. Perhaps you should take a moment to concentrate on separating your stream of consciousness from those thoughts you wish to project.

Kon swallowed and nodded. Good idea. Do not want to go public thinking about how shapely our silent companion looks in her night ensemble. Wait, had that been … ?

Concentrate, Kent.

The room was still dark but while it was hard to make out the details of its contents, his companions stood out as clearly as day. An effect of the telepathic link? Kon glanced at Dubbilex, his grey skin and horns making himself look even more like he’d been hewn from stone. When no reprimand was forthcoming, Kon realized that he’d managed to keep that thought private, and glanced to Cass.

Cool and impassive as ever with her arms folded, Cass held herself tightly in check, even now. She thought as deliberately as she spoke but under running her words were images – or memories – of the way people moved. Wilson. Dangerous. The man’s posture radiated his satisfaction and impatience. Whatever was coming he was confident it would be sufficient to attain his goal. The closeness of the way his officers stood together, their smirks indicated they were aware of part of his plan – and deliberately held back from the men. 

The crew – cannon fodder? Or worse—bait? 

I fear both, Mr Kent. I am employed to run a tight ship, and keep the crew docile and obedient, but I dare not probe deeply enough to ascertain Wilson’s exact plans. Dubbilex confessed. He knows what I am. He knows what I am capable of. He will have taken precautions. 

Precautions, is it. Kon remembered the conversation in the hold. Wilson didn’t seem at all bothered about having me on board, even knowing-- 

Dubbilex and Cass regarded him impassively. Kon found he could not continue. So. I believe we were making plans? 

Watch. Cassie’s instruction was followed by a blindingly fast burst of information; movements remembered and matched against previous encounters and studied fighting styles. Learn. She shifted stance, much as a fighter would in readying himself for battle. Ready. 

Agreed. Working as a team we can gather more information. Until then, wait, watch. When the time comes to act, we will know it. Dubbilex lowered his head once more in a more formal bow. I’ll say farewell now. It is not wise for me to be absent from my post … And Mr Kent has an early morning ahead of him.

It would be too much to hope that now that we’re on the same side, I’d be allowed to sleep in?

Dubbilex’s smile was so faint that Kon might have thought he’d imagined it. Indeed. The telepath raised one gnarled hand and the door unlocked and swung inward at his command. We should not want Wilson to become suspicious at this late stage.

No, we would not. Kon sighed, then stepped forward to follow Dubbilex out the door. Even knowing that they had an ally on board, he did not feel easy about the discovery that Wilson’s obsession went way beyond what Kon had anticipated. Likewise, he had more questions than answers about both of his companions. 

Cass left the room noiselessly as a shadow. Typical. No matter whether it was an infestation of imps, Drake and Bart having one of their unbelievably convulated arguments or putting dinner on the table, it was always left to Kon to get things done. 

I really owe Ma some thanks, Kon thought, focusing as the doors double locks slid back into place. Never really appreciated all she did – 

The sudden awareness of another presence in the corridor was a shock, but the telepathic link must have left a few echoes. Kon relaxed as he recognized Cass, though immediately annoyed at himself for allowing himself to be spooked yet again. Look, I’m all for being a gentleman and indulging a lady, but this is getting a little ridiculous, Kon thought as loudly as he could. I know where the hold is. 

The telepathic connection might not have still been functioning, but it seemed his meaning was communicated. Cass simply pointed. 

It was not until he had once again reached the hold door that he realized that if Cass had not needed to escort him through the officer’s quarters and across the decks, then she definitely had not needed to safeguard his passage down the deserted corridor that led to his isolated room in the hold. Turning to quiz his second shadow about this, Kon got perhaps the biggest shock of the evening. 

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this.” 

Cass’s arms were folded and she tilted her head at him quizzically. 

“The watching me move part. I know that’s how you operate, Miss Dark and Dangerous, but you keep that up and a gentleman might get the wrong idea,” Kon rested his arm against the doorway and leaned into it. “I might even think you liked me for reasons other than my considerable skills with a lock.”

It was not the words he’d have spoken to Tana, but Tana had belonged to a different time. His ideals had been almost as high flown as his expressions of love. Beth had been puzzling, forced him to be honest but he’d never escaped the feeling of playing games. Mia – what they’d had was too brief for subtlety. 

Now – he was still raw. Too raw for promises. 

It wasn’t about words anyway. It was the shift in posture, the challenge inherent in a slow, drawn out smile, the direction of a look—

“After,” Cass said, adjusting her posture to meet his. She moved fluidly to meet him, battle ready, and Kon had just a moment to wonder if he’d misjudged things before she was in, under his guard and his own body reaching treacherously to pull her closer. “Not ‘no’.” 

The kiss was fierce as everything else she did, but Kon could take some satisfaction in knowing that he gave back almost as good. There was a slight difference in her breathing as she disappeared down the corridor to her pallet in the galley, and the placement of her hands during their kiss had left no doubts as to exactly where her attention had been during their return to the hold. 

In short, Kon was in a very self-congratulatory mood as he shut the hold door behind himself. About time something went his way – and what a thing to go right. He was not only enamoured with but enamouring a girl who was not only a tidy piece of goods in her own right but—

Kon paused. 

He was enamouring a girl who made Drake look sane. 

“Oh, h---.”


	6. In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.

Bart’s journey may not have been planned, but it was very well-timed. Sitting up in one of the many spare bedrooms at the Wayne mansion, Drake regarded the headline with a growing sense of encroaching migraine. 

_NATIONAL HERO LOST AT SEA. The Alicia Vanished Without a Trace. Crew of Whaling Vessel found Unharmed in Harpoon Boats by Passing Vessel. No Explanation for Disappearance of Boat or Captain, Famous Hunter and Explorer Slade Wilson. Officers and Two Crew Members Still Missing. Greatest Nautical Mystery since Finding of Marie Celeste. Could This be Proof of Existence of Legendary Sea-Monster?_

On the one hand, it was rather refreshing to not see further example of the Ripper’s handiwork on display, or the increasingly hysterical theories perpetuated by the Press. On the other—

He couldn’t hit Conner. 

“Subtlety. Subtlety! If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a dozen times—“

Alfred tsked from the foot of the bed where he was occupied laying out Drake’s suit for the day. “Our colonial cousins do make it a habit of being out-spoken. The navy or the emerald vest?” 

“The navy will do. But honestly, just look at this – all of the missing will be coming under scrutiny. Look, they’ve listed them on page 2. Wilson, his daughter—did you know he had a daughter?”

“There were rumours to that effect a few years ago. Apparently there was a murder in Beirut. Not a foundation affair, but Master Bruce thought it worthy of some attention all the same given Wilson’s previous record. We thought it might be one of his former conquests come back to haunt him, but it was a human affair. It seems Miss Wilson had acquired an admirer.” 

“She’s pretty? Perfect.” Drake shook the newspaper pages out irritably. “Famous Captain looses Legendary Temper on Hapless American Nitwit in Defence of Daughter’s Honour. Crew Lucky to Escape At All.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I understand that the men who crew a whaling vessel would be made of rather strong stuff. I can’t imagine them being so shocked by a love affair that they would forget all about the circumstances that led them to abandon ship en masse.” 

“No,” Drake agreed, thoughtfully. “Neither can I.” 

He looked again to page 2 and the list of missing. Wilson and his daughter, delightful or otherwise, got top billing, followed by the officers in order of rank. ‘C. Kent (American citizen)’ registered ignominiously, second from the bottom, only just above ‘Unknown Cook.’ 

“If I may be permitted to make an observation, Master Tim?” Alfred briskly dusted off the day’s jacket before setting it out with the rest of the suit. “I would not brood over your absent friend. This affair has many unknowns, and if there is one thing that I am sure of, it is that we haven’t seen the last of your Mr. Kent. If he is anything like his cousin, he is quite capable of managing the most unlikely things.” 

Drake looked up about to protest, then realised, abashed, that Alfred was right. “I suppose it’s natural to worry,” he agreed ironically – when exactly had that happened? And then, carefully, “I didn’t realise you’d met Mr. Kent’s cousin too.” 

“Master Clark. A good deal more reserved and less impetuous than your friend, but cut from the same stock. Master Bruce and he would argue terrifically, but they always came around in the end.” Finished his task, Alfred prepared to leave. “If you are not in the mood to linger over breakfast, Master Bruce elected to have his in the study. He has all the papers with him.” 

The Director had all the papers and some cables direct from the financiers of the Alicia’s voyage. “No explanation. Wilson allowed them to believe that he was interested in the experience of whale-hunting. Most of the crew were experienced hands, with the exception of the officers, most of whom were recruited personally by Wilson with the exception of the First Mate, an agent of the Shipping Company who was there to see to the running of the ship.”

“So all the missing are Wilson’s personal party, two seamen and a cook,” Drake said slowly from his stance at the window. “If you can consider Conner a seaman.” 

“He was known to Wilson as someone of interest,” the Director reminded him. “It is possible that Wilson intended to add him to his collection. All the same –“

“Yes,” Drake said. “The first mate and the cook.”

“The only two crew members with knowledge that Wilson cannot do without.” The Director frowned absently at his half eaten slice of toast with marmalade.

Drake waited, but no further comment was forthcoming. “There’s more to this,” he accused. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

The Director shook his head. “It may be coincidence. Cassandra’s assignment was to watch Wilson.” 

This certainly changed things. “You’ve not heard from her?” 

“It’s not unusual for her to be – out of contact. She has her own methods as you know.” The Director shook his head. “She may have decided to voyage ahead and catch up with Wilson in the whaling ports of the North Atlantic, or even be taking care of unfinished business in the city still.” 

Drake nodded slowly. “At least if there’s one thing we know, it’s that she wasn’t on board the Alicia. Everyone’s named or accounted for but the cook, and we know for a fact that isn’t a possibility.” 

The Director ignored the attempt at levity. “What have I told you about making a target of yourself? Move away from the window.”

About to argue that he wasn’t careless, Drake reconsidered. With Cassandra in the field and the Ripper still on the loose, he had grounds to worry. “I’ll wire Dick from the Foundation,” he said, turning away from the window. “He’s not talking to you, but if he knows its about Cassandra—“ 

And then everything exploded in glass and pain. 

\--oOo—

“Two ballrooms. Three five-star restaurants. A reading room, two smoking rooms, three salons, a library, regular orchestra performances and a croquet deck, but is there anything fun to do on this ship? Nothing!” 

Three days aboard one of the most luxurious liners in the Atlantic and Bart was almost at his limit. Everything about the liner was luxurious, polished, refined and in keeping with the tastes of its passengers – respectable. Not only were the novels staid and improving, but it was hard to even open a conversation without a letter of introduction first. Bart, not used to society without the magic attached to the Foundation’s wealth and standing, chafed, exasperated beyond belief. 

And to top it all off, they didn’t have any of his favourite novels. No Castle of Otranto, no Mysteries of Udolpho, no Camilla. Bart sighed. At least Kon was enjoying himself, happily gallivanting about chasing whales. He was probably learning all sorts of interesting things … and Tim would be having no end of fun hunting down clues and fighting rogue werewolves and ghouls in London. Meanwhile, he was suffocating in sophistication. 

Bart tugged his tie off. “What’s the point in dressing for dinner only to make the same polite small talk with the same people I made the same small talk with the night before and will make again tomorrow night!” Throwing the tie across the room provided momentary relief, but it also reminded him that Tim had done something very similar while saying goodbye and that led to the reflection that if only Tim had been aboard, there would have been no complaints of boredom. Thoroughly depressed, Bart stood to divest himself of his jacket, his eye lighting on Kon’s type-writer, set out on the writing desk, and paused. 

_I’m leaving my type-writer to Bart. With his lurid imagination, I’m sure he’d be able to come up with a penny-dreadful or two. Drake, you’ll find a use for the suit. Not really much need for dinner jackets on the farm._

Bart hadn’t given it serious thought. Kon had remarked how often Bart found a reason to be in his room when ever he was working on his book, and Bart had made his excuses, not quite sure how to say there was something about the rhythm of Kon’s typing, rather like that of falling rain that was really quite soothing. Instead he’d taken to hiding his novels amongst Kon’s books so that he might have a reason to join him. He suspected that Kon suspected – 

Was it one of the many subterfuges that allowed them to say they cared without admitting it? 

Bart sat down at the desk. The typewriter case had included paper. Kon wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t thought Bart wouldn’t use it, surely. Bart ran a finger over the keys. 

At any rate, it bet discussing the weather and holding open doors for innumerable middle-class matrons. 

_The full moon shone over the dark, craggy folds of the mountains, not penetrating but rather strengthening the deep shadows, until they seemed bottomless obsidian pits. In their depths the wild wolf roamed in search of prey, the owl hunted, and other, more ancient hunters stirred. Their rest was disturbed by a sound rarely heard in the distant corner of the wilderness – the sound of carriage wheels, bound for … Castle Cadmus!_

Bart hesitated. 

Tim would not approve. Tim would never approve. Nothing that could be traced back to them, and he had used his real name for that memorable excursion. Not to mention that Luthor had most likely survived with enough of his fortune intact to make things very difficult for him and the Director. No, better not to remind Luthor just how truly they’d foiled his plans. 

But that meant he’d need a new villain. 

_Castle Brayne, the home to generations upon generation of the Brayne family, proud men of ruthless intellect and determination whose dark history had left almost as great a scar on the landscape as it had on their own dark souls! The current Lord was cut from the same rock as his ancestors, a proud, stern, forbidding man who suffered from gout and whose only companions in his ancient holding were an elderly manservant and a nephew, bound to his antisocial and demanding uncle by ties of deep, if completely misplaced, filial affection._

Giving the Director gout went some way to assuage Bart’s annoyance at his treatment in London, and he happily filled out the nephew’s circumstances. Intelligent, sardonic, handsome but marked by the same tragic destiny as his Uncle, Tarquin Brayne fitted perfectly to the Byronic model of hero and Bart found that he could easily wax lyrical about the nephew’s inner suffering (intense) and fears for his Uncle’s sanity (many) and doubts over the safety of his Uncle’s soul (well-founded) for a few pages of text. It was then that he remembered his carriage and its occupants. 

The heroine was easy. Annabellina was the pert, plucky heiress to an immense fortune of her own, who was doomed to marry Lord Brayne by the terms of her deceased father’s will. She had tight auburn curls, impeccable dress sense and a pistol. With her was her childhood friend, the dear son of her father’s lawyer, now become a lawyer himself, determined to challenge the will – and perhaps make a proposal of his own? Kon would make a passable lawyer, Bart decided, lingering over the description of how his concern for his beloved Annabellina was evident in the frown that played over his handsome brow and how his broad shoulders shook as he reached for her hand and implored her to think again about the impetuous visit to the Lord Brayne. 

_But Annabellina was resolute. Although harbouring no little emotion for her dear friend in her bosom, she begged him to let go her hand, her sweet, bell-like voice falling upon his ears like the chimes of the very ceremony he hoped to save her from. “You must not think me heartless to your suffering, my dear Cuthbert, nay, or insensible myself. But I simply cannot ignore the wishes of my poor departed Papa! Until I know for myself what sort of a man Lord Brayne is, I cannot break the promise my dear Papa made to him.”_

_Gentleman that he was, Cuthbert released her hand, though it broke his heart to do so. “My dear Annabellina, I have never loved you so much as I do this night – no, I must not speak of it. Please think of me as your dear friend, and know that I will do anything I can to aid you, in any circumstances--_

\--oOo—

“We uncoil the rope – line. I meant line. Then we coil it up again. Uncoil. Coil. I thought there would be some hunting of whales on this voyage.”

“Standard sea-faring procedure. Once you have finished using the line you return it to its place, Kent. Surely the hazards of leaving uncoiled line over the deck is obvious even to your dim intellect?” 

“I’ll give you that we don’t want the crew tripping over themselves – but do we truly need so much of this rope? And for that matter, why am I rubbing salt into the deck?” Kon paused, motioning to the sea surrounding them. “Surely we got enough of that already.” 

“Swabbing cures the wooden surface of the deck, allowing it to withstand the conditions of the voyage.”

“So this is swabbing.” Kon considered this thoughtfully. “All this time and I never knew.” 

Dubbilex regarded him blandly. Not a muscle in his stony face twitched. In the daylight, he looked even more like he’d been hewn out of a block of granite and Kon wondered how the surrounding sailors could be blind to it. 

“Telepathic suggestion. I project. Only those of remarkable mental fortitude, those trained to discern the paranormal or possessing amulets of protection resist.”

Kon grimaced, getting back to work on the deck. “Broadcasting again.”

“Everyone does, more or less. I’m used to it. One of the hazards of leaving – well, of living amongst man.” Dubbilex paused to allow a pair of sailors to pass them. “You’ll want to hurry it up. With the wind tailing off, we will have to adjust our course soon.” 

Living amongst man, was it? Kon might not need to hide his appearance to blend in, but beneath the surface was he any less different? “The fun never ends on a whaler, huh. I don’t even know how those up-market passenger liners stay in business. Sure they got dancing and billiards and first class chefs, but when you compare that to rubbing salt into the deck—“

“The on-board entertainment not up to your standards, Kent?”

“Captain Wilson!” Kon belatedly started to scramble to his feet, but Wilson raised his hand to stop him, looking instead to his first mate. 

“He’s keeping you busy, Dubbilex.” 

“It is I who is keeping Mr Kent busy, Captain. He is … slow to grasp the mechanics of sailing, but willing to work once he understands what he is meant to do. I do not think you can fault him as a crew member.” 

“Mm,” Wilson sounded sceptical. “We’re on track for the coordinates?” 

“We should reach them before nightfall.”

“I want us there faster.”

Dubbilex bowed. “I will see it is done.” 

They were both quiet as Wilson continued his circuit of the decks, sailors straightening up and suddenly working much more briskly as he passed. Kon couldn’t blame them. Despite how quietly he’d approached them, Wilson was a powerfully built man, and while his beard might be white, there was very little to suggest he was anything but a man in his prime in his movements. On the open waters he’d replaced suit with the same rough shirt and trousers worn by the crew, and the eye-patch gave him a suggestion of roughish pirate Captain. 

“I don’t see that he needs you around to keep things calm. Surely he could just intimidate the crew into doing what he needs,” Kon observed. 

“Get below decks. If we’re to meet the Captain’s schedule, we’re going to have to start tacking now and we do not want you underfoot.” 

“Your concern is touching as always.” As Kon gathered his cleaning equipment up, he couldn’t resist a worried enquiry. Think this is it?

It very well may be. Inform Cass. Dubbilex’s face might not have changed but Kon thought that he could sense something very like worry in the telepath’s demeanour.

“Hey, dangerous! Captain’s putting all hands to the line, really trying to get us to some coordinates in a hurry and Dubbilex thinks – nngh.” 

Cass looked up from where she stood in front of the fire, meat crackling in the saucepan in front of her. Kon caught a quick glimpse of something that might have been concern before everything went black and nauseous--

\--and then cold and wet. 

Even after this much time together, it was hard not to jump every time he opened his eyes to see Cass inches away from him, but at this moment his stomach just wasn’t up for it. Not to mention that the bucket she held provided ample explanation as to both her presence and his current sodden state. “Thanks, Cass.” Kon coughed and sat up gingerly. Cass lent him a hand, and he stood, leaning an arm against the galley wall as he looked around. 

The fire was out and the smell of smoke not as strong, but it was still there if he thought about it. Kon tried not to think about it. “Can we open a door or something – get some air in here? I – sorry.” 

It was one of the few moments where he was grateful for the inscrutable expression of his companion. Cass’s expression was as blank as if he’d been telling her his latest opinion on sailing vessels or was trying to get her to join him and the crew in playing cards, and it didn’t shift even as she stood to get the door. 

Kon let out a breath. At least he didn’t need to feel bad for putting a dent in Wilson’s floor. “Thanks. I – know it’s pretty pathetic, but it always gets to me like this. Well, not always like this, I mean I usually avoid it, but with how small it is in here, the smell got – pretty bad.” 

All those voices, shrill with pain. Heat, blindingly bright. And then it was so still as to seem quiet if it weren’t for the sound of flames dying down, and the smoke, thick with the smell of—

“You cook.” 

“Yeah. Ma taught me. She figured I’d have problems else. We worked out it’s okay if I can’t smell it. Soups and things. I’m okay cutting it up for casseroles, stews if I skip the braising part, but …” Kon glanced to see how Cass was taking this, but she didn’t seem to have permanently lowered her opinion of him. “I don’t exactly want to eat it. If it’s just for me, I leave it out.” 

Cass nodded. “Dubbilex?” She said just as brusquely and Kon was grateful to get onto the subject of why he’d come back to the galley in the first place. 

“He thinks this could be it.” 

They reached the coordinates Wilson was so anxious about mid-afternoon and as anticipated, the Captain assembled everyone on deck. With the officers surveying the crew from above, Kon felt just as uncomfortable as he had the first time Wilson had made an announcement to the crew. 

The way Miss Wilson kept fondling her gun was not helping matters any. 

“She does remember she’s not alone right now, right?” 

Cass jabbed him with her elbow. “Listen. Ready.” 

“Right, right. I’ll be ready.” 

“Watch Wilson.” 

“I am – the other Wilson. Got it.” 

Wilson’s weapon of choice was a harpoon gun. It had to be custom made for him. Even given all the times Kon had helped Bart and Drake ‘borrow’ experimental weaponry from the Foundation’s arsenal, he’d never seen anything quite like it. It was jagged, mean, designed to catch and tear, causing maximum damage in Wilson’s prey. Probably custom designed for the Aquaman. Among Wilson’s officers were numerous engineers and mechanics. 

“—known to haunt these waters, preying on unsuspecting boats as they pass through. It is speculated that the reason for this is the fact that these waters are where several pods of whale return year after year to birth their young. It is not unlikely that the whale represents just as much wealth to the Aquaman as it does to whalers such as yourselves. I plan to use this to our advantage and draw him out, by letting you do what you do best.” Wilson smiled his cruelly calculating smile. “Whale.” 

There were raucous cheers from the crew. Apparently Kon was not the only one to have been finding the on-board entertainment lacking. 

“It is likely that Aquaman will use several of the ocean creatures he has enslaved to drive you away. You will engage, seeking to keep his attention on you as long as possible. While he battles you above, my officers and I will block off his escape below.” 

Below? Kon looked to his companions to see if either had an idea of Wilson’s meaning. The diving suits? He really thinks that’ll be enough?

Tells truth. Cass’s arms were folded and she never once removed her gaze from Wilson. Something below.

I can sense other minds, just on the end of my range. An armed force. Dubbilex sounded concerned. 

So the sailors are – bait? Kon glanced around him at the men. Not friends, but they’d talked, they’d played cards, they’d drunkenly taught him to sing songs about mermaids. We’re not letting that happen.

“It’ll be dangerous of course,” Wilson said with the easy confidence of the born commander. “But I consider the risk well worth the reward.” He waited until the crews enthusiastic cheering had died down. “Are there any who would oppose my plan? If so, speak now. This is your only option.” 

It was so quiet, every metallic chink as the wind tugged against the limp sail was audible. Rose Wilson paused her inspection of her weapon to look down on the crew, scanning them with a gaze every bit as cool and superior as that of her father’s. 

It was quite a look and Kon was again struck by the conundrum of reconciling curves like hers to a mind like Wilson’s—

“Me.” 

There was a stir of surprise as Cass spoke, followed immediately by a roar of laughter. Even Wilson appeared amused. And to be fair, the situation did look rather incongruous. In her usual tunic and hood, Cass appeared smaller and entirely non-threatening, exactly like the cook she pretended to be. She did not react to the laughter, but Kon felt stung all the same. 

“Also registering my discontent, sir!” 

“As do I.” 

“I wish I could say this was a surprise, Dubbilex, but I’ve had my suspicions for some time now. Mr Kent, on the other hand, I had you down as something of an adventurer. After all, you were very vocal on the subject of the Vampyre at Cadmus Castle. Surely you have no great love for inhuman creatures such as the Aquaman?” 

Kon tried not to look as awkward as he felt at the reminder. “That was personal.” 

“And this is business.” Wilson cleared his throat. “Before we tackle the Aquaman, men, I should like to see your mettle. Subdue our little trio of malcontents.”

\--oOo--

_I think Wilson figured that he could pit enough crew against me and that eventually I would go down. Although aware that Dubbilex is psychic, he didn’t think his mental powers would be much of a threat, once he was knocked unconscious. Of course, he didn’t know that ‘making suggestions’ wasn’t the limit of what Dubbilex was capable of. But it was the cook who really tipped the scales in our balance. Did you see what I did there?_

_Still, we didn’t stop him from putting his plan into action. Apparently Aquaman shows up for shipwrecks as well as whaling vessels and since we were both (apparently no one told Wilson that the Captain goes down with the ship, he doesn’t sink the ship when he thinks he’s losing) suddenly we got a certified maelstrom happening, complete with moray eels, sharks and manta rays, as well as the Aquaman himself. This was enough of a distraction for Dubbilex to convince the crew that they really should be sitting quietly in the boats while Wilson and Aquaman attempted to spear each other and I learnt how to lower harpoon boats. This was not helped by Miss Wilson deciding she liked the cut of my jib (that would be a sea-faring term) but that she took umbrage at my part in her father’s current situation and wanted to cut my jib herself._

_What was the cook doing while we were battling for our lives? Good question, but as we are now sitting in the other harpoon boat with all the vials of the poison that Wilson was planning to use on the Atlanteans, I am guessing that there was a good amount of circumspect breaking and entering happening. I had barely enough time to grab my suitcase. At least we got some biscuit and salt pork before the boat went under, and the Aquaman retrieved a barrel of water for us as he was declaring that if we ever show face in these waters again we could expect no mercy. I think he was a little distracted – Wilson’s submersible had just retreated under the waves, Miss Wilson with it. Apparently Wilson has a son. Did you know he had a son? And a submersible._

_On the other hand, we have a barrel of water, my suitcase, stale sea biscuits, salt pork and our lives. I’m not quite sure who was the winner here, but I will say that I am seriously reconsidering my decision to travel via whaler._

Or – was it leaving London at all that he regretted? Sitting in one of Drake’s favourite restaurants while Bart excitedly outlined the latest underworld rumour he had picked up the Club, all on the Foundation’s tab … 

The two of them were probably living it up without him there cramping their style. No more having to avoid the seedier bars for fear of shocking Kon’s colonial morals, no more having to share the monsters they pursued …

_You had better not be having too much fun right now living in up in London, while we’re stuck on a boat in the open sea, hoping that some other vessel comes in range of Dubbilex’s telepathy and rescues us, that’s all I’m saying._

“Writing to your London friends? I am surprised at your confidence in getting the letter to them, Mr Kent.” 

Kon shrugged, not stirring from his location in the bottom of the boat. The harpoon boat was meant to hold a crew of ten or more. There was more than enough room for him to spread out, even with their rather haphazard collection of supplies. “To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about how I’d send this letter even when I started it.” 

If he’d send it. Could he? He’d just up and left—

No, not down that path. Not with the ocean so big and wide and nothing but time to think. “Though now that you mention it, I’m surprised at your confidence at all. We’re cast adrift in the Atlantic, and you seem pretty relaxed.”

"I suppose I do not rattle easily." 

"Cass, you on the verge of hysterics?" 

Cass didn't open her eyes. She was seated in the sort of pose commonly adopted by the jade figurines of the Buddhist faith hawked near the docks by itinerant traders. Her front of calm was in no way diminished by the smudge of dirt on one cheek, a souvenir from their battle. "Quiet. Focus. Rest." 

"With the two of you so close to the edge of breakdown, you can see why I'm so concerned over our predicament," Kon told Dubbilex, returning to his letter with a shrug. 

And yet, the other's words had raised an awareness of something. Or was it a memory? Kon tried to concentrate on the elusive feeling. It was almost as if--

"There's an island," he said slowly. "Not far. I think--" Kon tried to grasp specifics but they escaped him, all except a slight tugging. "It's that way. But -- what I am saying? My trip to Europe, we didn't pass any islands until we reached our destination." It was a little disconcerting to be the first of the three to lose his mind. "Here I thought cabin fever was supposed to take weeks, not hours." 

"Are you that sure you haven't been here before?" Dubbilex asked mildly. 

Kon glared. He wasn't in the mood to be humoured. "I'm not that far gone I need to be pacified. Of course I haven't been out here before. A sea voyage isn't something I'd forget."

"And yet, you must have got to Kansas somehow." 

Kon paused. It was true he didn't remember anything of his life before the Kent's small homestead but to be from another continent entirely--

Then again, Clark's search for answers had taken him to Europe. Why not elsewhere? 

"You think that -- maybe I'm remembering something real?" 

"I think that at this point, we have nothing to lose," Dubbilex said. "Concentrate on the direction of the island you sensed earlier and take the helm. I'll use my ability to direct the boat over the waves." 

It worked well. It worked better than well. The boat flew over the waves sending spray in their wake, and the wind rushing past seemed to take with it all the tedium of the many hours trapped below the unrelenting sun. 

Cass abandoned her attempt at meditating, climbing up to the bow of their harpoon boat, positioning herself imperiously on the very tip. She balanced expertly, anticipating the rise and fall of the boat, clearly enjoying the challenge and the rush of the wind. Seeing her obvious enjoyment, Kon couldn’t resist giving Dubbilex’s handling of the boat a boost with his own power. As the speed increased, Cass’s delighted laugh was caught by the wind. Kon grinned. 

_I know that she’s dangerous. To do what she’s able to do, well, something had to have happened. I don’t know what she’s seen, what she’s done. But it’s hard to remember that when she’s so completely in the moment like she is. There’s nothing on her mind but the beauty of the moment, and it’s in those moments I feel like I see right to the heart of her, know that whatever it is that she does, that is the real her –_

_I don’t know. I feel privileged, lucky. Is that crazy? I have a feeling that this is the moment that the two of you’d be breaking out the anti-curse charms and the big guns, but somehow, the fact that I’m on a harpoon boat with a gargoyle and a mystery in siren form heading towards an even bigger mystery with very little prospect of ever encountering civilisation again doesn’t seem to bother me as much as it should._

_Hope you two are well,_  
Yours,  
Kon. 


	7. Look twice before you leap.

Whatever doubts Drake may have had about his position in Bart’s nebulous affections, the tantrum resulting from his announcement was enough to dispel any uncertainty of the central position he occupied in Bart’s affairs. The vehemence of Bart’s arguments was flatteringly strong, his persistence admirable and his anger spoke volumes of his unwillingness to be separated from Drake. 

Leaning against the brick of the building opposite Bart’s own apartment, Drake permitted himself a small smirk. The heated display had done much to lie to rest many of his own doubts as well. He was clearer than ever on where he stood with both Director and Bart. A good argument often cleared the air and he certainly felt better for having things out in the open. 

That Bart had still not come back to the house and was refusing to talk to him at all was inconvenient, but Drake supposed as he watched the curtains of Bart’s bedroom window twitch, even that was proof of the sincerity of Bart’s feelings. It was not in his nature to hold grudges or anger long. That he’d managed to stay angry for as long as he had bespoke the strength of his attachment. Besides, the thrill of reunion always made up for the ache of separation and this time would be no different. 

He lingered a few moments more in the hopes of Bart coming back to the window, but when no other movement was forthcoming, continued down the street at a brisk pace. Ever since Lord Wayne had made the public announcement at a dinner (an intimate affair for only 100 of his closest friends), he had been so busy signing papers and meeting with legal advisors, lawyers and so on that he almost didn’t have time for the weighty business of the Foundation. 

He rather suspected it was deliberate. They had secretaries for that sort of thing and he’d said as much to the Director but the reply had simply been that he wanted the adoption to be as personal as possible. He’d even come to most of the dreary explanations in person. Whether it was to distract himself or to ensure that Drake was not brooding was hard to say. The Luciana had arrived in New York; they had received a telegram from Dick. They’d been braced for anger, for justified accusations of callousness. 

Instead, they’d received something frostily polite – and final. 

“He needs time,” the Director had said. “Distance.” 

Another continent wasn’t distant enough? Tim hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow, but perhaps the Director’s words had sounded off even to him. He’d cleared his throat. 

“To the matter of the Ripper.” 

“You finished him. I mean – we all did,” Drake said. “He wasn’t coming back, after that.” 

“When dealing with a necromancer, ‘coming back’ is never as final as one might wish, and for all his garish tendencies and outré tricks, one must never forget that at the bottom of the manner, the Ripper is a very powerful necromancer indeed.” 

“But he died! For him to come back after that – someone else must be pulling the strings.” 

The Director leaned forward. “It is possible he left a servant enspelled somewhere in the event of his demise. Equipped with everything he’d need for the ritual and motivated by enough hate and anger to go through with it even without the Ripper’s control.” 

They’d never found Jason’s body. 

“I can—“

“No, you won’t. I’ve scheduled a meeting with a clairvoyant. I want to be very sure that any curses attached to the Wayne name do not carry over with the adoption and Madame Zatanna is the best at what she does. She does not come to London often and when she does, her services are in high demand. You’ll meet her.”

Drake complied, because whatever his reasons for not wanting Drake on the Ripper case, what he said about Madame Zatanna was true enough – and he had his own motivations for the consultation. 

“Lord Wayne spoke of cleansing your aura. Not of investigating others, Mr. Drake.” 

“Please. Timothy.” Those who knew Drake would have been astonished at how bright and earnest he could be. “I know it’s not exactly what Lord Wayne asked you to meet me for, but it would be a great relief to me to know that my friend is all right.” 

Zatanna sighed, tucking her long black hair from her face. “Much as I’d like to oblige you, Mr … Timothy … it’s not as easy as you might think. While I do have a scrying bowl with me, I used the last of my water gathered below the full moon on this morning’s client, and then we need a possession that belonged to your absent friend—“

Drake set his case on the table. The liquid sound of water was audible from within. Madame Zatanna raised an eyebrow. 

“You come prepared.” 

“Always.” 

“I sense movement. Water. Your friend is on a boat. Location is hard to pin down without landmarks – I’d say North Atlantic, but I cannot be any more precise. The boat is rough, wooden.” 

“Wooden?” Drake was surprised. No wonder Conner’s name didn’t show up in any of the cruiser passenger lists. “Is he – happy? Worried? Can you tell?”

“There is interference. I am not sure the cause,” Zatanna extended a hand over the scrying bowl, the water within rippling gently at the movement. “Your friend is unhurt although he seems – deeply troubled. There is – danger at hand. He knows and is readying to meet it.” 

Typical Conner. He was almost as bad as Bart when it came to staying out of trouble. “Your powers don’t allow you to divine the source of that trouble?”

“As I said the distance is great. I can tell you that his thoughts range both sides of the Atlantic. He dwells on friends left behind and a test to come – and the absence of someone very dear to him.”

Well, if nothing else, that should satisfy Bart. They could work out how to help Conner later. Drake nodded. “Thank you, Madame Zatanna. You’ve been of immense service.” 

“Not yet, I haven’t. Your aura, Mr. Timothy. Give me your hand.” 

Zatanna tsked as her gaze went inward, and Drake had to force himself to remain still, calm. It was always disconcerting being seen with senses he could not experience and after Zatanna’s exhibition of power concerning Conner he could not help but feel very bare. 

“You are troubled by a great many secrets. Responsibility so great it separates you from your peers. Loneliness, estranged from your – brother? – and someone ever nearer. Family--“

“If I had family, Madame Zatanna, Lord Wayne would not be adopting me.” 

Madame Zatanna had the business sense not to contradict a client – out loud. “You are marked by grief, by purpose and – more. There is a dark fate entwined with yours.”

“Lord Wayne is not the most personable of men, but to refer to the adoption—“

“This is something rather more arcane than your benefactor. Something older, darker. A bond made by blood.” She shook her head to clear it, turning her sharp gaze back on Drake. “You have not been experimenting with any Ancient Rituals?” 

“That’s an old matter. Settled now. Lord Wayne is aware of it.” 

“I should mention it to him regardless. Even if you believe that the originator has departed this vale, there may yet be other unforeseen circumstances. Blood bonds are notoriously hard to break. It would be possible with my knowledge to exorcise the bond—“

“Unnecessary,” Drake decided. “The matter is settled.” He smiled. “About the Wayne curse?” 

He left Madame Zatanna’s hotel room with much to think about, sending the carriage on ahead to allow him to stretch his legs as he cleared his head. That had been a much more educational meeting than he – or even Lord Wayne – might have anticipated. 

The walk was short, would have been shorter had the park not been fenced off, constables patrolling the interior in pairs. Another death, just the previous night. Practically on the Foundation’s doorstep. None of them had any illusions about just who it was or what sort of a message he was trying to send, but Drake had the distinct suspicion that the Ripper had only been the start of their problems. 

Still, while he had been human their hands had been tied. Now that he was very much dead – and everyone agreed on that -- all restraints were off. 

Or on. 

The Director had issued a directive to all the employees of the Foundation, operatives, associates, cleaning staff and watchmen alike. They were all to wear a crucifix at all times, leave the Foundation in pairs, never go out without company. He and Drake had personally laid down new wards over every possible entrance. Publically, the Director used the upcoming adoption and resulting press coverage to explain why – with the sudden focus of attention on his riches and mortality, he claimed to have been the recipient of threatening letters and while not fearing for his own life, wished his staff to take all due precautions. He allowed the staff and Yard to believe his would-be tormenters were the victims of some religious obsession and even if Comissioner Gordon did not believe him, he was by now used enough to Lord Wayne to know not to question his quirks. 

In addition to Drake’s usual crucifix, he was now wearing an amulet against enchantment, a ring with a spelled stone to prevent hexes and a Lord Wayne’s own specially designed armour – flexible and thin enough to be worn below the clothes, while still strong enough to offer resistance to most weapons. To the casual observer, it would be difficult to spot any change in his appearance – indeed, the only thing that really appeared obvious was the ring, and then only when he removed his gloves. 

Drake paused. Why did a ring … ? 

Of course, the Director had been wearing one the night they’d talked in the park. They’d believed it was an admirer of the Ripper’s work at play then, not yet taking more than the usual precautions. Not even the Director would have been foolhardy enough to walk the park alone had he known. 

But why then the right? Had he feared – 

No, Drake realised, pausing as he lined up the facts. The ring the Director had worn that night held a different stone. Emerald. Known for its properties to maintain balance, heal and ward off poisons. A useful talisman to be sure –but not against the Ripper. 

The Director was not yet returned when he arrived, and Drake removed his gloves and joined Miss Gordon and Miss Harm in the library. At least the two of them were the same as ever, greeting him cheerfully and chatting about the day’s events. Pleased to see him – or simply pleased to see him safe? 

The third time Miss Harm had asked him how he was, Drake raised an eyebrow. “You do realise that you’re repeating yourself, Greta?” 

The ghost blushed – and was that ever an oddity in itself – and assured him that she hadn’t meant to. “I don’t doubt that you’re capable of taking care of yourself,” she said. “But with everyone talking about the Ripper’s original rampage …” She shivered, and Drake patted her insubstantial shoulder in reassurance. “You will be careful?” 

“Always,” Drake said with certainty. “You laid out the books I wanted?”

“Of course! Every volume Mr Kent looked at while he was here. I remember, because we discussed most of them. His werewolf paper, you remember.”

“I could hardly forget.” Not with Lord Queen and the Director taking pot shots at each other every chance they got. “Greta, were there any books he didn’t discuss with you?” 

“Well—“ Greta considered, casually drifting close enough that the coolness of her insubstantial spectral form penetrated his jacket. “Most of the books for his second book. The field-guide on demons and demonic monsters. He didn’t think they were very ladylike reading and I have to admit, I agree. All that sacrificing and feasting on entrails … Oh, and then there was the book you gave him.” 

Drake paused. “That I gave him?”

“Interplanetary geology. Don’t you remember?” 

Of course. “Yes,” Drake said slowly. “I think I see now.” The ring hadn’t been for the Ripper. It had been for Conner. 

Which meant—

“Where are you going? Drake – you haven’t forgotten the rules about travelling alone—“

“No time,” Drake said already halfway out the door. “Gordon, I’ll need your help. Ships departing today bound for the States, all passengers who made a booking today.” 

Miss Harm stared, drifting in and out of visibility but Miss Gordon was already at work, directing her chair towards her office. “Got it. Where can I reach you?”

“The docks.” 

Bart hadn’t shown the same care Conner had in disguising his passage. The false name was new but obviously taken from one of his favourite novels, and his agitated manner at the booking office had made an impression on the staff. 

In fact, due to Miss Gordon recognising that a booking had been made on all Trans-Atlantic Passenger Liners by a small company in which Lord Wayne had considerable shares meant that Drake reached Bart’s cabin before he did. Bart had just time to drop his suitcase and shut the door behind him before he was disarmed, seized and kissed very thoroughly. 

“Tim,” Bart said miserably, once they’d done greeting each other. He was backed up against the headboard of the single bed in his small cabin. “This won’t work. You can’t convince me to stay.” 

“A single crossbow? Is that all?” Drake was picking through Bart’s luggage, trying to plan. “No weapons, and you still had time to grab Conner’s type-writer and my dress.”

Bart snatched the gown from him. “I have the parasol. That’s got the sword in it.”

“Not enough. Here. You’ll have to take my cudgel – with the throwing knives you’d only be a danger to yourself and others. Daggers are wasted on you, but at least you know how to operate a pistol.” 

“I’m just as good a shot as you,” Bart retorted indignantly then stopped. “You’re not doing a very good job of persuading me to stay.” 

“I’m not trying to persuade you to stay.” Now that he was done making sure that Bart was somewhat prepared for America, Drake considered him. The ticket office staff had cause to be alarmed. He looked pale and shaken, not too far from tears. Drake sat on the corner of the bed, reaching out a careful hand to rest on Bart’s shoulder. “You were right to be anxious about Conner. He needs your help.” 

To his surprise, Bart flinched at his words, looking down. “That’s not right. He’s – I’m the last person he needs. I –“ 

Drake frowned. “I discovered something today. The day Conner left, the Director was wearing a ring made out of the same rock that Luthor used at Castle Cadmus. The green one that had such a peculiar effect on Conner.” 

Bart looked up sharply, disbelief and suspicion playing on his features. “You don’t mean—It wasn’t because of me that Conner left?” 

“No,” Drake said. “And the Director had no right to tell you that it was.” 

He was right; Bart folded immediately. “I thought – you know I can’t remember what the Vampyre does. And he put it so plausibly! We don’t know how the Vampyre made the bond after all—“

Drake squeezed his shoulder. “You can discuss that with Conner, when you find him.” He stood, smoothing his shirt down then neatly arranging his vest and tie into place. “I suggest you start with Carnegie. Talk to Professor Harper, then find his friends, colleagues that he may attempt to contact before heading to Kansas. You’ve a few weeks lead on him – for reasons known only to himself, Conner elected to travel via whaler.” 

Bart looked appropriately bemused. “He was aware that there are no ladies on whalers?”

“Ask him about it when you find him. I’ll be curious to hear his explanation,” Drake smirked shrugging his jacket back on. 

Bart was encouraged to come over to join him at the door. “You could come with me,” he said. “The Director tricked both of us. It would serve him right.” 

“It would,” Drake agreed. “But there’s still questions I want answered. Questions that are in London.”

“And you’re not going to let the Director turn you into an emotionless automaton while I’m gone?” 

“He hasn’t succeeded yet, has he?” Drake bowed in farewell, picking up his valise. Something in Bart’s expression made him hesitate. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “This is hardly the most dangerous thing you’ve undertaken, even without me.” 

Bart smiled and shook his head. “Not that,” he said. “You said hello before, but you’ve forgotten to say goodbye.” 

Goodbye was intense and almost ended with Drake missing the final call for well-wishers to depart. He was the last down the stairs and as the liner pulled out of the harbour to a crowd of waving handkerchiefs he strolled slowly back down the length of the pier lost in reflections. 

The black carriage waiting at the end of the pier gave him only momentary pause. Drake continued his deliberate gait, nodding to the driver and climbing up as though he were expecting it. The horses started immediately, and before long the bustle of the port settled into the more restrained atmosphere of London’s main streets.

It wasn’t until they’d passed the Tower that the Director broke the silence. “You didn’t succeed in persuading him to stay?” 

Drake’s smile was sardonic. “I didn’t try. It turns out we agree – America is much the better place for Bart to be right now.” 

The Director was surprised, but pride would not permit him to ask. Drake waited a few minutes for that to rankle before breaking the silence. “When you gave your reasons for adopting me,” he reminded the Director, tone conversational. “You said it was because to run the Foundation successfully after you, I’d need access to everything. Perhaps we should widen that to include your plans?” 

The Director lowered his head; silent apology. “Perhaps you are right. We’ll discuss this – after we’ve dealt with the Ripper.”


	8. It takes very little fire to make a great deal of smoke nowadays, and notoriety is not real glory.

Drake had always felt that disinfectant was a very reassuring smell. Poetic potential was limited, granted, and it didn’t charm the senses in the way that flowers, incense or a hint of tantalisingly unknown perfume might, or offer comfort the way the warmth of freshly baked bread or a roast dinner might. It didn’t hold hints of dark cold corners or gunpowder like members of the Foundation did, or smell faintly of books and machine grease like Miss Gordon. But it was a good smell nonetheless. 

You applied disinfectant only after you’d won and could afford to take the time to lick your wounds. Disinfectant meant you’d survived. 

He’d survived. 

And now that he was sure of that fact, Drake was aware of other facts. 

He lay absolutely still as training had taught him. Don’t move until you’re sure you will not harm yourself or others. Not that there would be much chance of either, it seemed. He was resting in a trestle bed. A good portion of his body was bound. Not by restraints. Cloth. Bandages. Was he hurt? 

Drake experimentally moved an arm. 

Definitely hurt. 

Glass, he thought. I was standing by the window. 

There was a rattling noise, something metal coming down the – hall? The sound was distant but coming closer. There were other sounds too. The murmur of voices, mostly female, calming, consoling, kind but business-like. Lots of people. Hard to tell how many. The sound was muted, conscious of itself. A hospital? 

“But I should be at the Manor.” 

“In the light of recent events, Master Tim, Master Bruce felt that it might be better to allow you to recover somewhere unknown to your attacker. He rather suspected that in the wake of your public adoption, the new Ripper might have taken your status rather personally.” 

Drake had opened his eyes immediately at the familiar voice and now attempted to sit. It was not the ordeal he had feared, and Albert watched calmly from his seat at the side of the hospital bed. “The new Ripper – Jason … ?” 

“Do not feel you need to make an effort on my part, Master Tim. I can talk to you just as well with you lying down.” 

“It’s all right. I can do this.” He hurt, true, but it was the ache of skin already healing. “I’ve been out a while.” 

“You’ve had the best healing magic that money could buy.” 

“If not the best care. Where is this place?” Now that Drake was sitting up, the cracks in the plaster of the walls and the wear on the bare floorboards were all too plainly visible. No windows, but even the dim light of the gas lamp or the richness of his blankets did nothing to disguise the decrepit surroundings. 

“A public hospital for burns patients. With your bandages, you fit right in. The nurses and patients assume that you are another patient, and I your devoted grandfather. Only the head of the hospital and your doctor know the truth.” 

“He went to all that trouble?” It was touching, somehow, to know that Bruce had taken so many precautions. 

“Indeed. But then we do have a grave situation. As you so rightly posited, the new Ripper is not so much new as he is equipped with new tricks. The Foundation has their hands full. Still, Master Bruce will be delighted to know that you are awake and in good spirits.” 

Drake had to smile at that. “He’d better be. I don’t think I’m going to be able to run back up for some time.” 

“Indeed.” Alfred’s long experience at bedsides was such that he knew instinctively to pat the pillow by Drake’s shoulder rather than the shoulder itself. “I will let him know immediately. In the meantime, should you need them, the daily papers are by your bedside, along with your correspondence.” 

The papers were tempting; Drake’s bills rather less so. In the end, he opted to ignore both in favour of the mirror. Alfred would not approve of him unwrapping his bandages to see the extent of the damage for himself, but if there was one thing that Drake was bad at, it was at accepting the unknown. As this particular mystery pertained to himself, he thought he was entitled – if not entirely satisfied. 

It could very easily have been a lot worse. A lot more permanent. Drake frowned, as he set about the lengthy task of rewrapping his arms. It seemed that most of the glass had hit his back and side as he’d been turning away. He had a barrage of stitches and cuts and would probably come out of this with more than one scar for the collection. That any major arteries had not been hit was luck, or his barrage of protection charms. Still – 

Even knowing that what he saw had been a lot worse before the Director’s healers had gone to work on him, Drake couldn’t feel entirely happy. He’d been careless. It could have cost him his life; it would cost him valuable time now. The Director was without either of his protégés, and there was no one else in London he could trust with a case like The Ripper. Reading about the carnage was not going to make Drake feel any better about the situation. Bills it would have to be. 

The envelope stood out. It was dirt-smeared and smelled of salt and tar. Definitely not the sort of envelope that held a letter a gentleman would receive. Even seeing that the seal had been broken and knowing that the Foundation had checked its contents did not make Drake feel any better about opening it. There were too many cases of curses triggered by specific actions or the passing of objects into the possession of the victim for him to feel entirely happy about this. 

Alfred returned as Drake was using the bedsheet to try and take out the letter without touching it. “No need for that, Master Tim. It’s been most thoroughly checked for magical traces. Nothing harmful was found.” 

“But what is it?” 

Alfred smiled, making himself comfortable in the armchair. “I do believe it is a letter.” 

“A letter?” 

And what a letter. Drake couldn’t deny that it gave him a feeling of relief so sharp as to be almost joyous to see Conner’s neat printing. The bitter-sweetness of the American’s assumption that he wrote to Drake and Bart might have stung a little, but it was a welcome pain, reminding Drake of happier times that had been – and would be again. 

If Conner managed to avoid embroiling himself in any further difficulties. 

“Well, I think the mystery of the Alicia is well and truly solved,” Drake observed, folding away the letter. He could feel a headache coming on. “Though I do hope for Conner’s sake that Wilson perished in the maelstrom. If his attitude to his daughter is anything like his attitude to his targets, I imagine that he is not going to take kindly to her forming any attachments.” 

“Indeed. By reputation, Wilson is a rather forbidding man to deal with, and his daughter seems to have followed rather devotedly in his footsteps. Hardly the sort of companion I would recommend for a friend of yours, though I suppose love is blind.” 

“Somehow, I don’t think blind applies in this case, so much as willingly deluded. I can’t think of a greater mismatch.” 

“Perhaps not the best time to mention it, but there has been a telegram for you from young Mr. Allen.” 

Point taken. “Where?” 

\--oOo—

So far, America was wonderful. It wasn’t a boat, and there were more than the same 2424 people around and as far as Bart was concerned, that made it great. There wasn’t even an ache in watching his fellow passengers be greeted by eager friends and relatives at the docks. Bart found that he positively revelled in the unknown, unfamiliar nature of the place. 

He was one of the first down the dismounting ramp so eager was he to quit the liner. He didn’t even dally on the pier to size up the crowd, or adjust to the feeling of not being aboard ship. He was blessedly free, and intended to make the most of it.

At the front of the pier, blocking the exit stood a single man, not part of the crowd. His clothing was fashionable if a little sombre and there was nothing in it to set this man apart but his bearing. He was deliberately apart from both the milling well-wishers and the business-like dock workers, watching, waiting for someone – and as the man’s eye fell on Bart and he straightened, business-like, Bart recognized him. 

His abrupt about-face was neither subtle or particularly graceful, but Bart didn’t care. If he hurried, he might just make it back onto the boat before—

“Give it up.” The voice was cool and amused. “It’ll be at least two days before the Luciana’s done refuelling and ready to depart. I am not even sure they’ll let you back on.” 

Bart sighed. “The Director saw me off already, you know. I don’t need to be greeted too, Grayson.” 

Grayson was silent a moment, and Bart was surprised enough to look up at him, catch a hint of something – emotion? – in his mask of urbane indifference. Grayson met his eyes and there was something that looked very much like sympathy there. “Actually, Bartholemew. I think you do.” 

In the week that he’d been in New York already, Grayson had moved out of the hotel, set himself up in an apartment. Compared to the rumours of Wayne manor and the furnishings at the Foundation, even Drake’s own townhouse, this was modest – a three bed-room apartment over top of two floors of offices that were already in the process of becoming the Wayne conglomerate’s American front. The furniture was in place, even if dustcovers and crates were still in evidence, and the finer touches of decorating had not yet been done. It was comfortable in a way that reminded Bart of travelling with Max, and he was quiet as he sat, curled up on Grayson’s sofa lost in thought. 

“Here.” 

Grayson held a hot cup at Bart’s shoulder, taking a sip from the identical cup he held. “Telegram’s sent. Alfred will see that Tim gets it.” 

Bart took the cup. “You made me tea?” 

“I made myself tea and I figured if you were here, you might as well have some.” Grayson had discarded his jacket and tie. He was a different person when not on Foundation business, choosing to sit on the armrest of his chair rather than in the chair, and picking up a newspaper as he did. 

“I didn’t know you made tea.” 

“It’s a pretty simple concept. A quantity of tea leaves and a corresponding amount of hot water.” Grayson relented. “I had a life before the Foundation, you realise. It hasn’t all been butlers and first-class catering.” 

“Mm.” Bart realised that sounded more doubtful than he had intended and took some tea to cover it. “It’s – good tea.” 

“You don’t have to try so hard. I’m Foundation. It would be weirder if you didn’t dislike me.” 

It was one thing for it to be true. It was another for Grayson himself to say it. “I don’t get this. You don’t have to pretend to like me to manipulate me, so why even bother?” 

“You might have just arrived, Bartholemew, but I’ve been here a week. Closer to two if you count the time on the boat. There’s no-one here who knows about the life. After a while, it doesn’t matter who, you want to talk to someone who knows – and let’s face it. Right now, we’re both hundreds of miles away from where we should be.” 

With Drake. “What do you think really happened? The news report – well, that’s not all of it, is it?” 

Grayson shook his head. “Tim ever tell you about the Ripper?” 

Bart blinked. “He’s dead though.” He paused. “Not that death seems to mean much these days.” 

“Not when you’d prefer it to, at least,” Grayson agreed. “They’ll have their hands full.”

Even as used as he was to the Foundation’s flippant way of referring to business, Bart couldn’t help but find Grayson’s dismissal insincere. The man was as worried as he was. “Will they be—“ Bart hesitated. 

“All right? If anyone can, it’s those two. Now, tell me how Tim suggested you look for Conner.” 

“He wanted me to go to Carnegie first to look up Kon’s professor – I thought you weren’t talking to any of them?” 

“I’m not.” 

“So how did you—“

“You just told me. Go on.” 

\--oOo—

The island was pleasant. 

Suspiciously so. There were traces of animal life, abundant fruit trees and Cass had discovered a fresh water stream with hardly any effort at all. At Dubbilex’s suggestion that they pull the boat up on shore out of the reach of the tide, Kon had reluctantly lifted the boat well past the high tide mark. 

Having found the island, he wanted nothing more than to leave it. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be lighting a signal fire or something? It’s been too long since I read Robinson Crusoe to remember, but I’m letting you know now, I’m in no mood to recreate it. We’re not staying on Nowhere Island.” 

“With our immediate needs met we have no reason to hurry, Kent,” Dubbilex told him mildly. “Should we sight a ship on the horizon, we will have time enough to build a fire. Why not relax?” 

“Relax?” 

“There are no decks for you to swab here,” Dubbilex pointed out with a hint of a smile. “Though if you miss them so badly I am sure I can think of something for you to do.” 

Kon regarded him balefully. This sudden development of a sense of humour on Dubbilex’s part was possibly the most alarming sign yet. Washed up on unknown desert island. Day one and crew already displaying uncharacteristic behaviour. May not be able to hold onto sanity much longer. “Pass. I’m going to look for somewhere safe to put those vials of poison. Cass, you want to come?”

Cass shrugged. She, at least, was perfectly happy taking Dubbilex’s advice, sitting on the shore, wiggling her bare feet in the sand. Kon watched her play for a few minutes before he remembered how much he disliked the island and set off to explore it. 

Knowing that they were alone on the island made even the expected jungle sounds somehow ominous. Every rustle of leave or shifting branch was someone out to catch him unawares. “This is ridiculous. It’s just an island. A coincidence—“ Kon slowed. “Well, maybe not a coincidence. Maybe Clark just stopped in here when he was taking me back from … well, from wherever it was he found me.” 

The jungle didn’t seem to believe him. 

Kon kept walking. 

It seemed that the island had been formed by an ancient volcanic eruption. The soil was fertile and plant life abundant, springing up everywhere. This made the path rather hard to explain. 

It started off small, a thin patch of dirt that could have been a dried up riverbed and Kon followed it only because it beat shoving plants out of his face every couple of steps. The cobble stones were somewhat harder to explain away. 

Granted there were just the two of them … and it could be coincidence that two rocks so close to each other had been worn down over time to the extent that they looked as though they’d been deliberately placed next to each other. Kon crouched down. Before he dragged Dubbilex and Cass all the way out into the middle of the jungle to witness his loss of his mind, he should double check. 

Reaching out with his power to shift the many layers of dirt and tree roots was not fundamentally too different from taking the lid off of the pickle jar. Learning that he was not bound by seeing what he took hold of was both enlightening and a little terrifying, but that was nothing to the shock Kon got when he saw just what his power had revealed. 

“This isn’t a path. It’s a road. An abandoned road on a mysterious island in the middle of nowhere.” 

There was more than just the road. Periodically there were squat statues, placed at the roadside. They seemed to be an animal, perhaps a dog, reminscient of the Mayan relics in the Carnegie’s collection. Others were human in form, but they were so badly worn down that even with the bush cleared away it was hard to interpret any meaning they had once held. Likewise, there were places where trenches had been dug, and bricks placed in squares. From his undergraduate degree, helping Professor Harper excavate for extra credit, Kon recognized them as the foundations of houses, enough to make up a town – or a city. 

But old. Hundreds of years, possibly even thousands of years old. “Greatest modern day archaeological find since Troy. This could make us famous – renowned. So why do I feel like this is a colossal joke?” 

The tropical breeze that stirred the foliage above didn’t penetrate the tree-line to the humid air at ground level, but Kon still felt a cold presence. He kept walking. 

The path climbed with the land, making its way up the sloping side of the central volcano. Well before it left the forest cover, however, it petered out abruptly into what seemed to be a natural cave. There were more of the little statues at the entrance, in slightly better condition than those of the forest. Kon could safely say that they did represent people if only for the fact that one of the statues had a bosom. Not even Drake could dispute that detective work – and yet Kon felt very strongly that there was more to come inside the cave. 

He didn’t know how long he stood in the entrance, the tropical sun warm on his shoulders and the back of his neck, yet the cave shadow’s chill before him. He’d wanted answers, and now – without knowing how he knew, Kon knew he’d found them. And with the same absolute clarity, Kon knew he wouldn’t like them. 

It was the memory of Clark in the end that prompted him to step into the dark. Clark had done this. He must have. And to understand, no – to find his cousin, Kon could do a lot worse than follow a dark underground passageway deep inside a mountain. 

It was a warren inside. A maze of tunnels all impossibly smooth, all impossibly identical. Not worn by lava, but neither were they hewn by man. It was more like some force of nature, or—

Kon bit his lip, thinking of his power. He kept one hand to guide himself on the side of the tunnel wall and continued. In the dark it was impossible to see where he was going, but at this point, he’d just accepted that he was not in control of the situation. “Drake would have packed a lantern,” he grumbled as he continued round another blind corner. “Then again, Drake would not have signed up for service without looking into the credentials of his Captain first.” On the other hand … “Bart would have. And he wouldn’t have packed a lantern either.” 

It was easier than keeping his mind off why he knew what the tunnels looked like even though he couldn’t see them. 

Eventually, the tunnels opened out into a wide cavern and Kon found that he had more than the walls to worry about. 

A few steps into the vast space, he stepped on something hard and brittle that snapped underfoot. Reaching down to the ground, Kon found shards of something thin and charred. “Bone … ?” He had a really bad feeling as he pressed his palms to the ground and felt outwards. 

There were similar brittle piles dotted all over the cavern. Tens, no – hundreds of them. They were centred around a large stone in the centre of the cavern, too smooth and regular in shape to be natural. And with these discoveries – memories. 

Was it his growing awareness that first allowed him to become cognizant of the chanting? Or was it the sound that had woken him? He wondered idly but didn’t pursue the thought. This was right. This was what had been told. As the chanting continued he felt warmth spread throughout his body and as it did, he became aware of himself. Those were his arms, his hands, the fingers his to move. 

There was a certain pleasure in being whole but no reason to rush or extend himself. That would come, and come soon. The warmth that had restored the life to his cold body was continuing to pool and grow within him, burning more brightly. He would not just be whole, but restored.

“Incredible. Such power.” 

The words echoed strangely. He could hear them inside and outside his own head. His voice --and yet not.

“It won’t be long now. More – I must have more!”

Something had gone wrong. There was a frenzied edge to the chanting, a note of fear and desperation. The drum rhythm had speeded up erratically and the discordant sound spread outward. The brightness began to sear him, no longer containable. He was not meant to let it go, but it was too much, he could not hold on to it without it hurting him—

And then it hadn’t been his choice. It was simply ripped out of him to explode outwards, the screams extinguished almost immediately--

It was with a start that Kon realised that the smoke he smelt was real. He jerked to his feet suddenly, almost hitting his head on the stone plinth behind him. “How—“ 

He didn’t remember moving. But then he hadn’t noticed Dubbilex and Cass’s arrival either. “What are – how did you --?” 

“When you failed to return after dark we grew concerned,” Dubbilex said, shifting the torch he carried to his other hand and putting his hand on Kon’s shoulder. “It was not hard to follow you through the jungle. You left quite a trail.” 

Dubbilex didn’t sound accusing – but then he didn’t sound particularly surprised either. Maybe he didn’t realise? Kon glanced around. 

With the light of the torches to illuminate the cavern, the little heaps of bones were somehow diminished and yet all the more pathetic for it. “I don’t know how to explain it. How I found this place. But it was sort of like I was led here, to find this and –“ Kon hesitated. It was hard to admit this possible to himself, even with the vivid recollection of Dr Hamilton’s office. To tell others – but could he not? This was – this was too big for him to make sense of. “I remembered. Being here. I think – I think I was here when whatever happened here happened.” 

“An interesting statement.” Dubbilex raised the torch so that Kon could see that the ceiling of the cave, like the walls, was blackened. “Whatever tore through here was extreme. If you were here, how do you think you survived?” 

Kon swallowed. When put like that—

He felt even worse about this.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “It’s really claustrophobic in here. Suffocating.” 

Cass was standing by the door, her pose thoughtful. Kon hesitated as he joined her. “I – didn’t mean you to worry,” he said, conscious of how inadequate the words were. “I’m especially sorry you had to see this—“

“Gun.” 

“What?” 

Cass planted her hand on his shoulder and pushed down and before Kon was entirely aware of it, he was crouched down beside the heap of bones she was studying so intently. “Look.” 

“Your display of concern is touching. I hardly no what to say,” Kon grumbled, studying the bones. He didn’t see what set them apart, except for their position by the entrance. And then he saw it – somewhat disfigured by the blast and buried under the bones but indisputably a gun. “But that is – I don’t remember this.” 

“Bones,” Cass said. “Bigger.” She pointed to the piles nearer the centre of the room. “Smaller. Different.” 

Kon stared at her a moment, before he took the torch to see for himself. 

It was just as she said. There was a marked difference in size between the bones in the centre of the room and those positioned around it or at the entry tunnels. They found further evidence of firearms as well. Two groups of people, one armed and positioned around the exit and entrance tunnel, the other … what? A sacrifice? But something had gone wrong—

“I don’t get it. This room, this entire island – you saw the city out there. It’s overrun. You’d swear that it hadn’t been used in centuries. And yet, the firearms here … Just what is going on?” 

Cassie placed her hand on his shoulder, catching his eyes as he looked up at the touch. She didn’t say anything, but Kon found that he could understand her even without words. 

He placed his hand over hers, looking down. “Thanks, Cass. It’s good to know I’m not alone with this mystery.” 

“You’re not alone,” Dubbilex assured him. “You never have been. But it is not time you know this mystery yet.” 

“What do you mean – yet?” 

The boat tipped violently as Kon sat up suddenly. He was momentarily dislocated, struggling to take in the sun and waves and the surrounding boat. “But we—what?” 

The sudden upheaval had woken Cass from where she leaned against Kon, and she picked herself up with no obvious signs of confusion. “Yet?” 

“I was talking – I think I was talking to someone. Wasn’t I?” Kon looked around, but the boat was empty except for the two of them, the salt pork, water and their other provisions. “I know I was talking to someone. It was dark and we were underground—I’m losing my mind, aren’t I. We’re adrift at sea and I’m losing my mind.” 

Cass put her arms around him. Kon was almost certain he could feel her smirk as he leaned into the touch. “And now you’re pitying me. This is – possibly the lowest point of my life. Losing my mind and having to be taken care of and still miles from anywhere with limited chances of being found before we run out of provisions. If Drake ever heard about this—“ 

Drake. That was it – he’d written to Drake, hadn’t he? Bart too. The letter should still be in his suitcase. He could check that, prove that there had been a third person on the boat with them—

The letter was gone.

“But this just doesn’t make sense,” Kon protested after they’d searched the boat for the third time. “There’s not a lot of places it could be. I wouldn’t throw it away – did I just imagine the whole thing?” He sighed, burying his hands in his hair. “Ye gods. I really am losing my mind.” 

“Ship.” 

“You’re telling me this is serious. It’s my mind! According to a lot of people I might not have used it very much, but I was fond of it. Attached! I have a lot of regard for it. And for it to be gone—“ 

Cass patiently and firmly took hold of Kon’s chin and directed it towards the horizon where the raised funnels of a steamboat were visible. 

“Oh. A ship.”


	9. You have no more right to consume happiness without producing it than to consume wealth without producing it.

Grayson had offered him one of his spare bedrooms while he orientated himself, but Bart had turned it down. Now that he was over the shock of the news and had heard back from Tim, Bart was determined to be the master of events, rather than being mastered by them. There would be no more surprises, no more tricks. He was not just going to find Kon, but he was going to do it so thoroughly that there would be no question of where the American belonged once he did. 

Bart enjoyed planning all of this very much, so it was rather annoying to discover that Grayson had taken the liberty of buying the train tickets for the pair of them even before Bart had gotten out of bed. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of deciding to go ahead to Smallville while you approach the University at Carnegie. It struck me that in a small town, strangers will be more noticeable so it is better that a professional makes the enquiries. Don’t you agree?” 

“I agree that you’re obviously trying to avoid Roy,” Bart retorted. “What is the matter with this muffin?”

“It is rather baffling, isn’t it? But I have yet to find a muffin worthy of the name in this city.” Grayson had an arrangement with the hotel across the road; they sent over an ample breakfast that was more than enough for him and Bart. Satisfactory in every respect – save the muffins. “I’ve tried to drop hints about crumpets to no avail. Anyway, Harper isn’t exactly an uncommon surname. There’s nothing to suggest that the Professor that taught Conner has any connection to Roy—“

“Uncle,” Bart said smugly. “Roy said so.” 

Grayson paused. “And you said the Uncle was an expert on the subject of lycanthropy?” 

“You’re asking me? You’ve got his books in your precious Foundation library—“ Bart paused. Grayson didn’t need to ask him. They both knew that. So why unless – he was thinking, weighing the pros and cons. Encountering Roy was a risk but— “If Professor Harper knows about Roy, it would explain why he is so passionate about his lycanthropy research. And if he knows, then he can give you information about paranormal problems here in the States.” 

“And here Tim said that you’d never make a detective. He’s got you all wrong, Bartholemew.” Grayson casually reached over to snatch another faux-muffin. “I suppose you won’t mind if I take Carnegie after all? I’m sure you’re anxious to make the acquaintance of Conner’s family.” 

Bart was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question. “I never said I wanted to work with you,” he pointed out. “And it’s not like I need the train ticket.” Grayson’s raised eyebrow was exasperatingly direct. Bart’s gaze alighted on his travelling case. “I’m a novelist now, as it happens. So I should have an income soon.”

“Is that so?” Grayson somehow managed to make even eating a muffin provoking. Very like Drake, and Bart wished that he knew Grayson well enough to kick him. “I don’t suppose you have any samples of your work with you?” 

Since Bart was feeling vindictive, he gave Dick the manuscript. 

\--oOo—

“I assure you, it’s not dissatisfaction with the care I’ve received at the hands of your staff, Doctor. In fact, you could even say it’s the opposite. I would not be feeling ready to leave if it wasn’t for their good services.” 

The doctor bowed. “It is kind of you to say so, Mr Drake. I know our facilities here are not what you’re used to, but we’re delighted to have been of service to Lord Wayne.” As they reached the bottom of the stairs, reaching the lobby, the Doctor bowed. “I will see if your carriage has arrived.” 

Drake bowed in acknowledgement, carefully pulling on his gloves. Moving was still somewhat awkward, and the many layers of bandages he still wore meant that Alfred had brought him some of Grayson’s clothing but it meant much to be dressed, shaved and standing on his own two feet. Better yet – he was getting out of the hospital. 

He glanced curiously at the lobby. This was the first he’d seen of the place other than his room. It was clear to see the hospital had once been a fairly large townhouse and the lobby had once been the entrance foyer. The ornate lighting was long gone, but the fittings remained, and where once some status symbol in the form of a fashionable painting had stood, there was a gilt edged board, with the names of the hospital’s donors. 

Drake looked immediately for the Wayne name, and was not surprised to find it amongst the earliest sponsors. Wayne senior then? As a medical practioner himself, he’d felt strongly about the availability of medical care to all. If that was the case, there would be a second donation made, by the son—

Scanning the list, Drake’s gaze dropped down to the last name on the list. For a long moment he simply regarded it. Coincidence? Or the clue he’d been waiting for? 

“Your man has arrived with the carriage, Mr Drake.” The doctor had returned. “Ah, you’ve found our list of sponsors? We are most indebted to your Lord Wayne.” 

“I was wondering about this last name,” Drake said motioning to the list. “The majority of names here are familiar to me, but I don’t believe I know a C. Kent?” 

“An American,” the Doctor explained. “A young man. It seems he had been travelling Europe and was about to return to the States. It was a brief interview, but he seemed a personable fellow. He was set on making the donation. In fact,” and the Doctor chuckled. “He warned us he was not to be dissuaded from it.” 

“Was he now,” Drake said. “That’s interesting.” Conner was a sentimentalist, and not immune to a hard-luck story, but charitable work was not exactly his thing – and of the incidents that had taken place the day of Conner’s departure, only one of them had involved fire. 

“We’re close to Harley Street, are we not?” 

“A few blocks walk – although in your condition—“ 

“Yes, you’re quite right.” Alfred would not approve. Although-- “Mr Pennyworth didn’t come in with you?”

“I didn’t see him in the carriage.” The doctor bowed again. “Once again, I can see it has been a pleasure, Mr Drake.” 

Mr Pennyworth not in the carriage? Drake paused a few moments, mentally nerving himself. He would not be able to put up a struggle in his current condition, and the crowded street made using his revolver unwise. His magical amulets were defensive only, easily removed should he be physically over-powered. But if he didn’t appear – 

Well, the Ripper had not spared civilians and Jason did not seem inclined to offer them any more respect. If he was lucky, Drake could at least contain the situation somewhat.

Drake jotted down a quick note in his pocketbook and folded it over. “Have someone relay this by phone to Lord Wayne or a representative at the Foundation,” he instructed. “It’s urgent.” 

And pulling on his last glove, Drake went outside to meet certain death. 

The death was indeed certain, but it was not Drake’s own. The coachman was one of the Foundation’s, nothing but his pallour and the fixidity with which he held the reins to indicate his demise. 

And if Jason was sending a servant to fetch Drake, then Drake still had a chance. He nodded curtly to the man, keeping his thoughts off his face. “The Foundation,” he ordered briskly. “As quickly as possible.” He stepped past the man to the carriage body, closing the door loudly. 

The man lifted the whip, and the horses obediently moved forward, leaving Drake standing on the pavement. 

He was a little insulted that had actually worked. 

Ignoring the bemused gazes of some of the pedestrians around him, Drake drew his walking stick and walked as determinedly as possible down the street. Jason must know the risks of sending undead labour to deal with a Foundation member. He would be close by to intercept the carriage as quickly as possible, so he didn’t have much time to get where he needed to be. 

An omnibus heading in his direction was the perfect solution. Much harder to find a single man amongst many, and Drake hoped that his plan was enough to catch Jason off guard. He would expect Drake to head to the Foundation or the Manor, perhaps even the authorities – but the enemy? 

It almost worked. 

The omnibus rattled to a sudden stop, along with exclamations of alarm from Drake’s fellow passengers. 

“One of those new fangled automobiles – a collision.” 

“The poor horses!” 

“Is anyone on board a doctor? Those men need help—“ 

It was the Foundation carriage, the one that had tried to abduct Drake earlier. He stood quietly, slipping unnoticed from the omnibus to join the crowd. Deliberate sabotage and murder, all to what end? Blocking the road, forcing all vehicles to a halt and their passengers to take to the street. Once he was on foot, Drake would be able to be singled out, identified and targeted. 

Jason had to be close then. But where? 

Drake scanned the rooftops, his eye falling on a wire that ran the length of a business. A private telephone line? If he could just get hold of Oracle—

Quietly using the crowd as his cover, Drake made his way to the grocery store. It was entirely deserted, and while the tumult outside provided easy explanation for that, Drake couldn’t feel entirely easy about the situation. It felt too much like—

He just dodged the bullet, ducking back behind a shelf of general supplies. Flour fell like silent snow in the empty store. Drake drew his own pistol, the preternatural calm that always settled over him in these moments coming instantly to the fore. Every instinct was at full alert, waiting for the shift of floorboards, the intake of breath that would let him know where his silent attacker was. 

But then Jason didn’t need to breathe now, did he?

“Calling for help? You are a disappointment on so many levels, Drake.” For Jason to be so open in announcing his presence, meant he was secure in his own safety. And for good reason – bullets might slow him, but would not harm him. “Your instinct is terrible. Being caught by a window? Downright sloppy. Look at the state you’re in now. There’s not enough in you to make this interesting.” 

“Your concern is touching. Mr. Todd, I take it?” Fleeing was not an option, not with Jason liable to fire into the crowd. 

“He warned you? Such paternal care.” Some instinct warned Drake to move at those words and he did, diving forward in a roll that Grayson had taught him to find new cover behind the meat safe as three bullets followed in all too close succession. “And for what? Certainly not filial loyalty. How will he react to learn that his precious adopted son is fraternizing with the enemy?” 

“Being the enemy in question, I’m not sure the argument is yours to make.” 

The reflection of raised metal was the only reason the fifth bullet did not meet Drake’s skull. He hit his injured arm as he pressed himself to the floor, clamping a hand over his mouth so as not to give Jason the satisfaction of knowing him rattled. 

“And here I thought you were supposed to be the intelligent one. Just making you a disappointment in all respects. Not that it matters now.” That shifting of weight was close – much closer than Drake had anticipated. Gritting his teeth, he forced his body into movement – to no avail. Jason had sent the shelves he was sheltering behind toppling over with a hefty kick and Drake found himself effectively pinned by the wreckage. 

Jason approached deliberately, the time for hiding past. “I had plans for you. But after meeting you, I think I might just do the old man a favour, end you now. He doesn’t need another liability after all.” 

It wasn’t Jason. Or it was – but not the man Drake knew by reputation. From the man’s apron and attire he had been the proprietor of the shop before his death, the neat bullet hole in the centre of his forehead explaining that mystery. “Using the dead to do your dirty work while you watch from afar? I don’t think you can accuse me of being a disappointment. Or sloppy – you intended to get me directly from the hospital didn’t you?” 

“You want to play this game?” It was unmistakably Todd’s voice. There were recordings in the Foundation’s records still from Grayson and Todd and the Director’s earliest missions. Listening to them, familiarizing himself with the protocols had been a large part of his early training. Not that this provided any measure of comfort as Jason’s host reached down to yank Drake out of the wreckage by the collar of his shirt. “Fine then. Let’s see how mouthy you are with your neck snapped.” 

The man was large and dead, he didn’t feel things like the protestations of muscles given too great a load. That was Drake’s chance. The man was already close to over-balancing, and it didn’t take much for Drake to kick back off another set of shelves and use that momentum to tip the two of them. Jason’s control over the man was not complete enough to compensate the shift in weight in time. Drake and the shopkeeper went sprawling, the fall breaking the man’s grip on his neck. 

But while the fall jarred Drake’s existing injuries, his opponent had the advantage of no longer feeling much of anything. It only took a few seconds for Jason’s control to reassert itself and then it was a desperate game of cat and mouse as Drake fought desperately to keep out of the man’s grip. Drake swung himself up onto the top of the shelves of wine, throwing a few bottles directly at his opponent before hastily abandoning the shelf as the shopkeeper brought the shelf down. He was running out of places to go—

“And I thought young Bartholemew had untidy habits.” 

Finally. The reinforcements. 

“He’s already dead, being controlled via some sort of psychic link. You don’t need to hold back.” 

“And here I thought it was merely another of Lord Wayne’s admirers.” Lord Queen raised his bow coolly. The arrow it held was one of his signature custom models – effective against all manner of preternatural creatures. 

The shopkeeper snarled. Clearly, Drake was not the only one to recognise the arrow. “Don’t think this ends here, Drake. And Queen – you’ll regret interfering with Foundation business.” 

Lord Queen merely raised an eyebrow. “I always do.” The arrow was precise, quick and final. 

Drake let out a deep breath. Reaction would be setting in, and he’d want to get himself off the shelves first. This was harder than anticipated. Landing jarred his injuries again, and he barely managed to keep his feet. He ended up leaning on Lord Queen’s arm as the man guided him through the store to the back entrance. 

“He trains you to be tough. He doesn’t train you to be sensible, I see.” Queen’s mouth was pressed into a thin line and he jerked his head back towards the shopkeeper’s remains. “I take it that was the work of the Ripper we’ve heard so much about?” 

“That was the Ripper. After me,” Drake said, deciding it was better that Queen have all the facts. “I realised he was targeting me as I left the hospital and so I thought I’d come to you for help.” 

“For my help?” Lord Queen gave Drake an arm up into his waiting carriage, before climbing up to take the reins. “Well. At least you have some sense. Figured that my people would know some of the same anti-paranormal tricks your lot does?” 

“Once a month, you have to keep a full pack of were-wolves in,” Drake said. “Stands to reason that you would know how to keep a necromancer out.” He paused. “I know how you feel about deaths in your territory,” he said. “I didn’t anticipate—“ 

“I know you didn’t. I smelled the necromancer. That’s why I was able to find you when I did. He really did a number on you, didn’t he, lad?” The shoulder slap was entirely too hearty and too jovial for either Drake’s comfort of mind or his recovering injuries. “Still, dousing him in wine was a good thought. Given the chance, you’d have ignited him?”

“Fire’s a purifier. Basic, but very effective.” And on that subject … “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about why Conner went back to America?” 

Lord Queen took his eyes off the road ahead of them a moment to glance back at him, green eyes glittering with amusement. “Took you long enough. But no. He was obviously upset, but he didn’t say what it was about.”

Drake nodded. He suspected as much. Kon respected Lord Queen a great deal, but the man was too confident and assured to make a comfortable confessional. 

“If the kid’s in trouble, I want to help.” Queen continued, with a sharp glance at Drake to see his message was taken seriously. “Kent’s not Foundation business. He’s a friend.” 

Drake’s smile was rueful. It said much for the effect that Kon had on people that not half an hour since he and Lord Queen had been battling an agent of a necromancer, they were both more concerned for the American than themselves. A sign of the innate charm Kon had often referenced or knowledge of his tendency to get himself into trouble? “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve got – one lead. One that I’d like to look into without the Foundation being aware of it.” 

Lord Queen’s smile was all teeth and Drake was reminded suddenly that the man wasn’t just a keeper of were-wolves. “I’m your man, Drake. But first, the Ripper.” 

“Yes,” Drake agreed, with a frown. “The Ripper.” 

It took him the rest of the ride back to Lord Queen’s manor to put his finger on just what was bothering him. Jason had known that Tim planned to take shelter with Queen’s pack when he’d accused him of fraternizing with the enemy – but how had he known? 

“The note I left to be relayed to you didn’t mention it,” Drake told the Director courtesy of Lord Queen’s private line. “So we can eliminate both him tapping into our communications, or an inside accomplice. Either Todd deduced it from my route, or there’s something else at play here.” 

“Agreed,” the Director said grimly from the other end of the line. “I’m not happy that he found you.” 

“If it was an inside tip-off, he had time. He might have wanted me conscious and awake. Said he was disappointed I wasn’t going to make it interesting.” Drake tried to ignore Lord Queen smirking at him from the bar. 

“Trying to rattle you. Interesting is not as much of a concern to him as dead.” 

“No,” Drake agreed slowly. “I suppose not.” Dead, he wouldn’t be Jason’s enemy. He would be his tool. “Is it possible,” he said slowly. “That what led Jason to me was – me?” 

The Director’s side of the line went very quiet. 

“What if there was something in that attack, something that got hidden by all the glass? I was conscious for a few days before he attempted to get at me. This morning, a nurse casually mentions the full name of the hospital in my hearing as well as the time I can expect Alfred, and right on cue, a carriage shows up. He then proceeded to set a trap for me, including the bait of the phone line to ensure I left the safety of the crowd, along the projected course of the omnibus I happened to choose at random.” Drake started as Lord Queen suddenly stepped close, relaxing as the peer merely set down a glass on the table beside him. He picked it up, with a wry grimace for his own reaction. “Thanks, Ollie.”

The silence got frostier. 

“Lord Queen insisted.” Drake took a sip of the drink. Scotch – and quality, at that. Very welcome. “Until we can definitively prove or disprove my theory, I’m staying here. Todd’s targeting me, but he’s after you. I’m not allowing him to use me to bring you down.” 

“Let me talk to him.” Lord Queen didn’t wait for permission to take the phone. “Bruce,” he said with his trademark brusqueness. “We don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. Never have, and I doubt that’s going to change in future, but you know where I stand on people getting hurt on my turf.” He paused to listen, giving a short bark of laughter at the Director’s reply. “Only you could have the gall to say that, and to a man that just offered to help you too. Don’t worry. You’ll get your protégé back in one piece.” 

Drake winced. With any luck, Miss Gordon was not privy to this particular call. And what memories was this bringing back for the Director? 

Lord Queen set the phone down. “You really think the necromancer’s got a window into your mind?” 

“It would make sense,” Drake agreed, cautiously. “It might just be nerves. After all, I have been under a good deal of strain since my injury.” 

Lord Queen snorted. “Nerves. With your teacher? Come on, to the library. I was thinking of showing you the mansion, giving you the grand tour as it were, but it makes no sense to warn our friend of what is waiting him should he try to join you. Instead, let’s see that your mind is occupied.” 

The Queen library was not as extensive as the Foundation’s collection, but it was home to several rare treasures. Only open to visitors upon written application, rumours of its contents had spread and Drake was pleased to find they were not unfounded. 

“Why, this is incredible! Knowne Beastes and Ghoules of Olde -- the Director himself has complained of this book being impossible to find!”

“I know,” Lord Queen said smugly. “I went to a lot of expense to see I got it before him. Make yourself at home. I’ll send up one of the pups with some food and a reading lamp, and we’ll get you a bed made up in here.” 

Drake couldn’t have asked for a better solution, and as Lord Queen left to arrange matters, Drake wondered if the man knew. Anticipating the actions of another in his head … That was very like living with the Beast within, wasn’t it? The only difference was that Todd was very calculating and in control of his actions … 

His sleep was unsettled, his dreams dark. Often he started awake with a movement, stepping onto ground that wasn’t there. An ordinary reaction to a dream of walking? Or Todd attempting to physically take control of his body as he did those of his dead servants? 

Drake lay still, trying to calm his heart-beat. He wouldn’t heal without rest, and he couldn’t do that if he wasn’t calm. It was to no avail, however, and with a sigh he sat up in his cot, reaching for the candle beside his bed. He turned listlessly through the pages of The Untold Americas: the True Tales of the New Worlds Old History trying to find a worthy distraction when the door creeped open. 

“Everything all right, Mr Drake?” 

It was the younger man, the one who’d been raised in a Tibetan monastery. “Just fine, Connor. Couldn’t sleep.” 

The man nodded. “If you need anything, just call. One of us will be out here all night.” 

A guard? It was strangely reassuring. Drake nodded and thanked Connor. A couple of minutes later, he found he could put down the book entirely, ready to try sleep again. This time it took and held.


	10. It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage.

Bart was discovering that being an author was harder than it seemed. It wasn’t the writing. It was the being read. 

Usually enthralled by watching the scenery pass by, Bart was finding this train ride excruciatingly slow. Every second seemed to crawl by. The smart, fresh decorations of the second-class coach offered little by way of distraction, and even something so little as the conductor asking for their tickets was a welcome event. 

Grayson said nothing, turning over the pages of Bart’s manuscript with excruciating slowness. He seemed to pause over every line, his expression composed. It was the same expression he wore when manning the desk in the Foundation’s offices, weeding out the need-to-knows from the need-not-knows. Was he amused? Annoyed? Had Bart crossed a line? Was he in trouble? Was Drake going to know about this? Worse, was the Director … ? 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Grayson cleared his throat and looked up. 

“I can’t concentrate with you leaning over me like that.” 

“I was just wondering what you thought –“

“It’s been five minutes, Bartholemew. I’ve only just got into your description of the castle.” 

“Just five minutes?” 

“Why not take a walk to the observation desk or something? This is your first time in the United States, you should see something of it.” 

“But—“ 

“Go, Bartholemew.” 

The observation deck was deserted, it being early in the journey. Most of the passengers in the coaches that Bart had passed were still arranging their skirts, or choosing their reading material or even still putting their bags away. Bart leaned over the railing, enjoying the feeling of the wind tugging in his hair. 

He’d always enjoyed travelling by train, revelling in the rapid movement of the train. Drake had teased him about this preference but indulged it, finding ways to make sure that their journeys included rapid trains wherever possible. Bart had secretly suspected that Drake enjoyed it just as much as he did. 

Drake. Bart bit his lip. He was worried but Grayson had talked him through the Director’s likely plans and if not exactly comforted, Bart knew that Drake would not be neglected. He’d find being confined to a hospital bed terribly dull. Bart had already written him one letter, but he could write another on the train. 

Though – it was strange. In London, they’d been so close, it was hard to imagine Drake hurt and Bart not rushing to join him immediately. Here – he was worried, but not overwhelmingly so. Was it the knowledge of the distance between them? If so, why did he feel they were so near? 

Leaning back against the safety railing, Bart stared up at the blue sky above. He could see Drake almost as clearly as he could see the clouds rushing by overhead. Bandaged, resting on his side on a sofa made up as a bed, a mug of tea beside him. Even recovering Drake would be busy, and Bart allowed himself a smile at the thought. Though really, he was being silly. What possible reason would Drake have to be recovering in Lord Queen’s library? 

More practically, he could accomplish much more by finding Kon and seeing that they both rejoined Drake in London where they could put a stop to this ‘getting injured’ nonsense. Bart spent a happy few minutes brooding on the satisfactoriness of this plan, before wondering how he was to put it into practice. 

It had seemed so simple on the boat. As Drake kept pointing out, Kon had proposed to Beth – more than once. Bart hadn’t appreciated it at the time. He’d said he was never going to use her again and meant that but – well, it was different. Kon knew now. He liked Bart. He had to like Drake despite claims to the contrary because what other reason could he have for staying around? So reminding him that what he had liked in Beth still existed—

Bart hesitated. It was a new game. One they’d not played before – not for these stakes or on these terms, at least. Complicating it further was the Director’s claims. Drake had briskly dismissed them, but even in broad daylight, even knowing that he was alive and in control, Bart couldn’t help but feel doubt. If what the Director said was true, then Bart was the last person Kon wanted to see. 

It was all too complicated. “Why couldn’t we have stayed in Castle Cadmus, slaying vampyres,” Bart complained to the sky. “I liked that.” 

The sky seemed unmoved. He must have been outside hours at least, Bart decided. He could safely return to the carriage now. Even if Grayson didn’t have an opinion for him on his work, he should hopefully have some insight into the Director’s vendetta against his charges having lives of their own. Satisfied with this decision, Bart stretched, letting go of the railing as he turned to re-enter the cabin.

A bright patch of orange caught his attention and he turned to look back, catching for a second one of those split second pictures you caught momentarily from the train before it ploughed on, leaving the image in your memory and the reality behind. A man with bright ginger hair, perhaps about Grayson’s age, perched atop a wooden fence. He wore rough working clothes, a white shirt half open, but he grinned with lazy self-confidence as the train rattled past, swinging down off the fence. 

Bart grinned, watching as the man began to run. Racing the train? Futile, but it might be fun to try. He’d often wished that there were more chances to simply run in the city, move without having to check your speed for pedestrians or passers-by or even—

He was keeping pace. The ginger-haired man was keeping pace with the train. 

Bart found himself reaching again for the railing. 

Keeping pace – and not even trying too hard to do it. 

The man seemed to generate his own energy. There was an aura about him that seemed strangely familiar. Strangely compelling. It seemed almost like—

The man glanced up. His green eyes met Bart’s yellow one’s and he came to an instant halt. The momentum of the train continued and he was lost, out of sight in moments, long before Bart could shake his startled self into action. 

“Wait—“

No chance of that. 

“Grayson! What would a man have to do to run as fast as a train?” 

“Good lord, Bartholemew! Is half an hour too much to ask?” 

“It’s an important enquiry!” 

“I do not know how Tim manages.” Grayson tugged at his vest pocket, freeing his pocketbook and throwing it at Bartholemew. “Find the dining carriage. Order yourself morning tea or something. Whatever you do, do it someplace else.” 

_I do not know how you manage, Tim. I know you regard Grayson as the older brother you never had and look up to him as much as you do the Director, but really. I discover a previously unheard of phenomenon, you’d think he would be a little bit interested! Or at least know better than to give me his pocketbook._

_Still, what the colonies lack in muffins, they make up for in dessert. We really should have come here before now! It’s almost civilised, though of course not nearly so much fun as if you were here._ Bart paused thoughtfully to consider his next line, glancing up as someone slid into the empty seat at his table. “Oh. Grayson.” 

“I don’t think I’m ever going to see you holding writing implements and feel safe again,” his companion observed, removing his handkerchief from his vest pocket with a business-like air. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very vindictive streak?” 

“Kon said I possess a ‘lurid imagination.’ Tea?”

“Please. Your manuscript is a libel case in waiting. No publisher in Britain would touch it.” 

Bart pushed the full tea cup over to Grayson. “I changed the names.” 

“Not enough. Then there’s the flaunting of morality, your dubious plot twists and heavy reliance on supernatural themes.” 

“You don’t think it’s publishable?”

“Au contraire. We’ll have to make a few changes – Lord Brayne’s deathbed confession could be safely cut for one-- but I think it could be very successful.” Grayson paused for a sip of tea and finding it satisfactory set it down. “I see scones. Is there butter?” 

Bart was lost. “But you said – we?”

“Ostensibly I’m here to extend the Wayne conglomerate’s business empire,” Grayson said briskly, discovering the butter. “That includes publishing. Copyright and libel laws are much looser here than in Britain, and with a few strategic changes, I think we should manage adequately.” 

“And the rest of it? The flaunting of morality and dubious plot twists?” 

“Sure to draw critical scorn – which means we’ve got every chance of becoming a popular success.” Grayson patted him on the shoulder. “Now think of what nom de plume you fancy and return my pocketbook. I need it to write you an advance.” 

\--oOo—

The fuss that had been made of them after they’d been picked up by the fishing boat had been one thing. The crowds of photographers and press waiting on the pier as they arrived in harbour was something else entirely. 

“Slade Wilson’s a living legend,” the first mate said, smirking at Kon’s obvious discomfort. “And the disappearance of the Alicia one of those once-in-a-lifetime stories. The pair of you are going to be in every paper around the globe come morning.” 

“Ha,” said Kon and went to look for Cass. 

He found her just about to jump ship. 

“What are you doing? You can’t disappear – well, you could, but then everyone’d be looking for you! There’s protocol. I’m reasonably certain we have to talk to the harbour master at the very least.” 

“Talk?” 

“Well, all right. I’d talk but they’d still want to see you, at least.” 

Cass patted his cheek. “Worry too much,” she said, swinging expertly up onto the railing. “All fine.” 

She moved to dive and Kon reacted instinctively. His hand was on the railing, his strange power reached out before he’d realized he was not ready to say goodbye. 

“Hey. Uh—“

Cass knelt deliberately on the railing, putting her hand over his. She gently but firmly uncurled his fingers from the railing, wrapping them in her own.

Kon couldn’t look at her. He was ashamed, both of his action in wilfully using his power against someone who couldn’t resist it and of the need that it suggested. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just – well, I guess, I didn’t want you to go without saying goodbye.” 

“Goodbye?” 

“Don’t laugh at me! Okay, so maybe not just goodbye.” Kon stole a glance up at Cass, but she was watching him with the same consideration she gave everything else. “You know, most girls at least pretend to consider the proposal before vanishing. You’re not even going to let me.”

Cass’s eyebrow raise was unimpressed. “Conner. Talk—“

“I know, I know. I just – it’s hard. I thought we’d have more time. I didn’t have time to think about this. Us.” Conner sighed, fingers tightening around the hand he held. “I know it would be difficult. You don’t do things like regular girls do. Not the sort of girl you could bring home to mother. Well, I could because Ma Kent is kind of surprising. You’d like her a lot! I think the first thing she’d say is that you look like you could do with a meal – not that I’m saying you proportions are anything short of excellent mind you. But mothers. Even adopted ones. Uh.” 

Kon risked a glance, but Cass wasn’t looking deadly. Rather she seemed bemused. This was a positive. 

“And then there’s me. I know my prospects aren’t the best, but they’re not the worst either. And – well, you figured out I’m not a regular man either. I don’t even know what I am, let alone if you could take me home to meet your parents. Do you have parents? These are important considerations. I know I’m not putting my case very well here, but what I mean to say is that not-withstanding all the above, I’d do my best to make you happy.” 

Cass’s head tilt was curious. 

Kon sighed. “You know,” he said, pausing to kiss the fingers he held. “I don’t know—“ Moving to her wrist. “How you women do it. A man speaks of love and all—“

Cass moved with sudden, painful speed. The hand that gripped his hair was forceful, bringing them face to face before Kon was entirely aware of her intent. “Love?”

She was so fierce, Kon fully expected to find himself slammed into the railing. Come this far, however, he decided there was nothing else for it. “Love,” he agreed, bracing himself for the killing blow. “Cass, I—“ 

She moved with characteristic speed and certainty and it was only belatedly that Kon realised that he was not being killed, rather kissed. He couldn’t contain his elation, pulling her tight, and Cass reciprocating, melding her body to his in a very satisfactory way. Relief and joy were dizzying and it was some time before either of them were willing to let go. 

Eventually, Cass stirred, nudging Kon’s shoulder with her cheek. “Floating.” 

“Tell me about it. Cass, you might just have made me the happiest man—“

Cass tugged his arm. “Conner. Floating.” She looked down. 

There was at least a metre of air between them and the deck. 

Was that … ? Kon’s immediate panic lost him his latent hold on whatever was keeping them airbourne. In his panic, he somehow managed to propel himself backwards, slamming into the engineer’s cabin with force, while Cass was sent flying backwards over the railing. A splash moments later indicated exactly where she’d ended up. 

Kon groaned, head in hands. 

“What’s the commotion? Mr Kent? Are you all right?” 

Kon kept his head in his hands. “Fine.” 

“Not quite got your sea-legs still? Well, you can stay put for the moment. Harbourmaster’s orders. You’re to remain on board until the Navy and the Police get here. They’ll want to interview you and the Cook before letting the media parade on shore get their turn. The Captain’s giving you his cabin for the interviews. Why not go ahead and wait there? I’ll go and find the cook.” 

Not just the police and a naval representative, as it turned out, but a doctor too. “No visible signs of trauma. You’re in remarkable health for a man your age, the ordeal you’ve suffered notwithstanding. And yet you say you can’t remember anything?”

“I remember flashes,” Kon admitted as he buttoned up his shirt. “Things like there being some sort of confusion. Possibly a fight? I remember the crew getting into the first two boats. I was ordered to lower them.” 

“Lower them? By who – Captain Wilson?” 

Kon hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so – but I don’t remember.” 

“And after that?” The policeman was a seasoned hand, not about to let anyone get away with anything.

“Just the boat and – the cook there with me.” 

“You must have spent a lot of time with the cook on the voyage. The other men said you acted as an assistant to him, is that correct? Did he give any hint of intending to jump ship once we got ashore? Any sign of him anticipating trouble?”

Kon shook his head. He was pretty confident that if Cass had any idea of what his panic had been about to do, that it would have been him falling from the deck. “No sir. I didn’t see anything of the sort.” 

They kept him for questioning for several hours, two men taking down everything Kon said in writing before finally letting him go. It was nightfall by then, the flare of camera flashes as Kon walked down the gangplank blinding. 

“Mr Kent! Do you have any memory of being abducted by sirens?” 

“Mr Kent! A few words for The New York Times?” 

“Washington Post! Kent, are the rumours of the Aquaman’s involvement true?” 

“The fate of Wilson—“

“Sorry, gentlemen!” An arm slipped around Kon’s shoulders and he found himself guided towards a waiting carriage. “This one’s a Daily Planet exclusive.”

Kon’s relationship with his cousin’s wife was awkward at best, but at the moment he could not have been happier to see her. “Lois! How on earth did you get here so quickly?”

“You’re kidding, right? The moment she saw C. Kent on the list of missing, no power on earth was going to keep Miss Lane from being in port to cover this story.” Jimmy was waiting by the carriage to give Kon a welcome handshake. “Europe’s done wonders for you. You look the spitting image of Clark.” 

Kon shot a worried look after Lois, but she’d swung herself up into the carriage without waiting for a hand. Kon mustered courage and followed. “Any word from--?”

“One disappearance at a time, Conner.” Jimmy squeezed up into the carriage next to Kon, and Lois already had her dictophone out. “Now, tell me. What exactly happened on The Alicia?”

There were two interviews. The one that took place in the carriage ride, and covered the basic outline of what events Kon could remember, redrafted by Lois and Jimmy into newspaper copy that would intrigue but not outrage the American public. The second took place in Conner’s hotel room, paid for by the Planet, once Jimmy had left to relay Lois’ article to the Metropolitan Office by wire. 

“You’re really telling me you think Wilson was aiming for Aquaman, and that he was planning to sacrifice the crew while he escaped to his underwater vessel but for reasons you’re not fully able to remember, his plan didn’t work? You do realise that you’re accusing one of the most well-liked and admired public figures of this century of plotting mass-murder, Conner?” 

“Which is why I didn’t mention it to Jimmy. And that’s only the tip of the ice-berg.” 

“The strange manifestations of some sort of tele-kinetic ability? We should get you to a doctor.” Lois flicked through her notebook. “I’m almost certain that there’s someone at the University—“

“No!” Lois looked up from her notes and Kon realised just how sharply his protest had sounded. “I – tried that in London,” he explained, shifting awkwardly in his seat on the foot of his hotel bed. “It didn’t work so well.” 

“Clark didn’t say anything about this?” 

“I was hoping he might have said something to you. I – asked him once. He said not to worry, that it might not even be the same for me but whether it was or wasn’t, I shouldn’t let it get to me but should concentrate on just being me, learning how to live.” Kon sighed. “I still don’t know what he meant by that.” 

Lois abandoned her professional pose, setting her notebook down on the desk and coming over to rest her arm on Kon’s shoulder. “Sure about that?” she asked, and Kon could hear the tiredness in her voice. “Clark can be infuriatingly bull-headed, but he’s not usually oblique.” 

“Do you think that maybe – something happened when he found me? Something … bad?”

“I’m a reporter, Conner. I know better than to speculate without facts. You can ask Clark yourself.” 

“You’ve seen him?” 

“Not seen him, but I hear from him occasionally. Thinks he’s getting close to what he’s looking for.” 

“So what makes you think—“

“Really, Conner.” Lois paused to ruffle his hair. “You don’t think he is going to miss his cousin’s wedding do you?” 

Kon found himself equal parts hopeful and embarrassed. “You really think he’ll come? I mean – I’m not even sure I still have a fiancée.” 

Lois snorted, moving to pour herself a drink. Along with the dictophone and notebook, the bottle of gin was an integral part of her journalist kit, used medically, to encourage interviews and to bolster nerve before a not entirely law-abiding investigative attempt. Although appreciative of the beauties he’d encountered in Europe, Kon had to admit that it was a special sort of woman who would pour her own drinks, and an even more special woman who would do so dressed in her custom reporting outfit. Lois’s fitted dress jacket and shirt would not look out of place in the top half of a fashion plate, tucked into a wide hooped skirt or paired with a bustle. Likewise, the trousers she paired them with were crisp, business-like and could easily have been taken directly from the gentleman’s half of the same fashion plate. 

Any other woman would be ridiculed for her choices. Lois … got stories. She passed the glass she’d just poured to Kon, pouring herself a second. “I don’t know what it is about you Kent men, but you can take it from one who should know that it will take more than an unexpected dip in the ocean to call off a marriage. In the absence of my husband, I think it falls to me to congratulate you on your engagement, Conner.” She raised her glass. “To the success of your nuptials, and the health of your fiancée.” Lois paused. “Wherever she may be.” 

\--oOo—

Drake wasn’t the only member of the Foundation family burning the midnight oil. In the room commonly referred to as her ‘office’, Miss Gordon sat before the giant switchboard that was her pride and joy and tried to will herself relaxed. She would not be of any use to Drake or the Director with her nerves rattled – and yet, she could not relax and sleep with the Ripper not yet apprehended. Since his unsuccessful attempt to snatch Drake from his hospital, there had been a dearth of attacks, seemingly pointing towards the truth of Drake’s theory that the Ripper had intended to target him. 

It was not a welcome thought knowing any member of their family targeted, and Miss Gordon brooded again over the unfortunate timing. If only Grayson and Cass were not so far away – or was that not a good thing? She was secretly relieved to know that Grayson was out of this particular battle … 

As if on cue, the light that signalled an overseas line lit up and Miss Gordon pressed the appropriate switch to connect it. “Speak of the devil, I tell you. Dick, how are you?”

“Wrong devil.” 

“Cass! Oh, this is a welcome surprise.” Miss Gordon expertly reached for her telegraph device. The Director would want to know about this as soon as possible. “You’ve arrived state-side then? What’s the situation?” 

“Lost Wilson.” There was characteristic pause as Cass sought the word she wanted. Miss Gordon could almost hear her shrug. “Well.” 

“It’s been in the papers. You’ll want to rendezvous with Grayson, debrief him in more detail,” Miss Gordon said, recording the location of Cass’s phone-line. “In New York? Is this a public phone?” 

“Private now.” 

Cass’s nonchalance was indicative of some struggle. Presumably some poor New Yorker had made the mistake of thinking that because she was alone, Cass might be vulnerable. 

“I know you know how to deal with these situations, but this isn’t London. Lord Wayne doesn’t have the same sway with the American police force as he does Her Majesty’s representatives. You’ll have to be discreet.” 

“Orders?” 

“Find Grayson. He’s in charge in the States,” Miss Gordon relayed the apartment address, already tracing maps against the data-signature of Cass’ line. “Once you cross the river, you’ll want to find the train tracks. Follow them towards the city.”

She waited for the click that would be Cass ending the call but instead there was simply silence. “Something bothering you?” 

There was more silence as Cass considered this. “Yes.” 

“What is it?” Had news of the Ripper reached Cass? Of course – Drake. Cass might not be able to read, but she could recognise the photos, infer from those. She might not have the formal training, but she did have a detective’s instinct.

“A boy.” There was a rather longer pause and then Cass said with a deliberateness that didn’t entirely disguise her wonder. “Loves me.” 

“Oh,” Miss Gordon said faintly. “Well.” This was not the situation she was expecting. It took a moment of sheer will to get over the sheer oddness of it and concentrate. “Is it a serious attachment?” 

“Proposed.” 

“Serious then.” The Director was not going to like this. “And you? How do you feel about him?” 

“No guard. Instinct terrible.” 

Well, that was the Director’s influence talking. “He’s asked you to marry him, Cass. Not fight him.” Miss Gordon paused. She shouldn’t be encouraging this, but she was curious despite her better instincts. “What is he like? As a man?” 

Cass considered carefully. “Wet,” she pronounced at last. “Good man. Prospects.” 

“Prospects? You’re – thinking about this seriously.” Again, the rational, logical part of Miss Gordon wanted to protest. Normal relationships might be founded on considerations such as prospects and matrimonial suitability. Foundation members couldn’t afford normality. She was living proof of that. Others had not been so lucky. 

And yet – without human desire, human weakness, what differentiated the Foundation from the very demons they fought? “Cass – Cassandra. Be—“ Careful? That hadn’t saved her. “Be sure of yourself,” she advised eventually. “And be gentle on him.”

“Strong.” 

“Be that as it may. Does your young man have a name—“ The line had gone still, silent. 

Well. 

Miss Gordon sat in front of the switchboard wondering whether it was worthwhile trying to raise Grayson again, or whether she’d be better off figuring out how to break the news to the Director that his little girl was growing up.


	11. Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 10th 2014. 
> 
> This is as far as I made it through Occult Couture. I took a break, life jumped in, and when I had a writing vibe again, it was for different projects. I haven't forgotten this story -- it is one of the most fun things I have ever done, introducing me to awesome friends and a fantastic community -- but I'm hesitant to say there will be more. I sort of suspect there will be because I love this universe something stupid, but I have a huge to-do list to get through first. Apologies!
> 
> Also, all of the quotes I used in the cut text of these chapters I found in this collection of Victorian Quotes: http://athenairis.tripod.com/quotes.html

Smallville was aptly named. It wasn’t even on the rail lines. To get there, Bart had to take a mail coach from another station. Perched precariously on the wagon, rattled between a cage of chickens and a couple of crates of dry goods, Bart wondered if Grayson had somehow known and changed their assignments accordingly. 

The other occupant in the mail coach was sadly uninteresting. He was a good example of the benefits of good, clean country living, with the sort of physique that appeared on posters advertising the benefits of voting labour, but his jacket had seen better days, his hat was an atrocity and he hunched a little when he walked. Furthermore, his posture bespoke a lack of resolve at odds with his manly appearance. That hesitation was probably due to the thick lensed glasses he wore that almost totally hid his eyes. Clearly a case of a countryman struggling to break into the city. If it hadn’t been for his cursory resemblance to Kon, Bart would not have noticed him at all. 

As the mail cart jolted uncomfortably down the country road – dirt, Bart noted with incredulity. Who still used dirt for roads? – the driver leaned back to talk to his companion. “S’been a long time,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect to see you home for some time.” 

“You know what they say,” the passenger replied, adjusting the second crate of chickens on his lap so he could turn to talk to the driver without dislodging them. “No place like home. How is the harvest this year doing?” 

And Drake said he was no detective. Bart smirked; pleased at his observational prowess, before settling back to watch the cornfields give way to … more cornfields. Bart traced the expanse of golden ears of corn all the way back to the horizon, feeling distinctly uneasy. It was quiet. Peaceful. Serene. 

Could Kon really have wanted to trade London for this? 

“And how’s the Ross baby?” 

“Baby? You’ve been away longer than you realise, son. The kid’s starting school in the Spring.” 

“It’s hard to believe it’s been years. The place doesn’t look any different.” 

Five years absence and the place hadn’t changed at all? That wasn’t pleasant, idyllic country life. That was stagnation. Bart owed it to Kon to get him out of here. 

The mail coach stopped at what appeared to be the general store. As Bart’s travelling companion helped the driver unload the mail cart, Bart inspected the store and found it underwhelming. There was little beyond the basic necessities on its shelves, and the publications were limited in range, if up-to-date. The telephone line was a positive development, meaning that he should still be able to reach Grayson to report that nothing at all of interest had happened in Smallville, and a primitive example of an electric light. 

Bart was regarding the Town Inn without great enthusiasm when a throat cleared behind him. 

His travelling companion motioned to a cart behind him. An old man regarded Bart curiously, holding the reins of an equally elderly plough-horse. “Pardon me, but you wouldn’t happen to be travelling to the Kent’s place now? ‘Cause we’re heading that way too. Plenty of room for you and your bags in the back.” 

The back of the cart was littered with straw and smelled strongly of what Bart hoped was earth. It was for Kon, he reminded himself. 

“All right back there?” 

“I can endure.” 

“Then we’re good to go, Pa.” 

The elderly man shook the reins and the horse drew them down the street. “We got time for you to stop in and say hello to Pete and Lana, you know. They always ask after you for news.” 

“We’ll have time to catch up tomorrow. Family first. From the sounds of things, we got some catching up.” 

“Not up on all the details of it myself, but that boy was never good at expressing himself in a hurry. Unlike his cousin, who can go years without writing home.” 

“Ma’s not happy with me?”

“Your Ma’s always happy with her son. But between you and me, you should write.” 

“With any luck, I shouldn’t need to. Soon.” As they passed the last of the houses that made up the Smallville township, the man took off his jacket, setting it in the back of the wagon with his own small carpet bag. As he did, he caught Bart’s eye. “Sorry,” he said with the habitual meekness he’d displayed on the mail cart. “I can’t imagine our gossip’s exactly interesting to an out-of-towner.”

Bart grimaced politely, and assured him he had enough to occupy him in the scenery. “I’ve never seen quite so much corn before.” 

“Corn? Those are wheat fields, boy.” 

“Oh. I see.” 

His travelling companion laughed. “Not many wheat fields in London, Pa,” he said easily. “This is your first visit to the heartland?” 

Bart nodded. “It is. But – how did you know I’m from London?” 

“Your accent stands out around here. Then there’s the label on your travelling case. The Luciana goes direct from New York to London, does it not?” 

Bart looked back to his case, the label clearly visible. “And you guessed I was heading to the Kent’s because … ?” 

“Because anything out of the ordinary in these parts ends up going to the Kent’s,” the old man said with some satisfaction, nudging his son in the ribs. “Ain’t that right?” 

“Not a lot happens out here,” Bart said thoughtfully. “Does it?” He was beginning to wonder if the reason Kon had never told them much about his life before Europe was because there was nothing to tell. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Pa sounded amused. “There’s plenty of goings on. Cattle-rustling, the odd marriage. The odd proposal – you know, you took a big risk going away when you did. I told you, the boy needed guidance. A strong figure to look up to.” 

“Pa!” His companion chided. “That was years ago. Besides, the girl said no.” 

“Once her Mother put her foot down. It was just as well they found a place for him at school. Still, it could have been a lot worse. No chip off the old block there.” 

They lapsed into mutual silence. Bart was able to respect their companionable silence for all of one minute. “Excuse my enquiry,” he said. “But do you know the Kents well?” 

“Fairly well,” his travelling companion said with a faint smile. He’d removed his hat and looked much the better for it. “Why do you ask?” 

“I’m not sure if I should have called ahead to let them know I intended to visit,” Bart confessed. “Do you think it’s all right if I show up?” 

“Folks aren’t big on ceremony around here,” the old man assured him. “Kents might not be the most outgoing of people, but they don’t say no to visitors.” 

“You won’t be turned away,” his son added. 

“Good,” Bart said. “I want to make a good impression.” 

“That’s not hard. Eat whatever Ma Kent gives you, and you’ll find yourself invited to dinner.” 

Bart felt slightly more hopeful. If that was all that was required, he was assured of acquitting himself with confidence. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure, boy. By the way, seems like you came an awfully long way to call without sending a message ahead. You got business with the Kents?”

Bart hesitated. “Hoping to renew an acquaintance,” he said, trying to convey as politely as he could that the subject was closed. 

Father and son raised eyebrows but didn’t comment. As they passed another farm, a question occurred to the younger man, his father filling him in with the local news. Bart let his thoughts wander to the coming encounter. He’d have to be his urbane best. Witty. Charming. Maybe not too witty. He didn’t want them to think he was laughing at them. 

Maybe he should be serious instead? Bart practiced a few staid faces, and straightened his jacket. That would be the way to go. Appeal to their future hopes for Kon. The academic atmosphere of London, the many opportunities for sponsorship and learning and culture – culture was all right, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to give the impression of looking down on their terribly rustic way of life. 

Bart was still wavering between approaches when the horse came to a meandering stop. He looked out at a modest homestead, well kept house and vegetable garden giving way to fields and barn. 

“The old place hasn’t changed much.” 

“It’s good to be home, Pa.” 

There was little left of the man that had stepped off the train with Bart only hours ago. He swung himself down off the wagon with an energy that belied his apparent years. At some point during the journey he’d tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket, blue eyes bright and entirely too familiar. The sign ‘Kent’ on the gate was really only the footnote to Bart’s realisation. 

“You’re the cousin.” 

“Clark, to a friend of Kon’s.” 

Clark held out his hand, and after a moment Bart took it. 

“I really did want to make a good impression.” 

Pa laughed, and Bart was surprised to be patted on the shoulder. “There’s still Martha.” 

Clark had already picked up his case and Bart’s travelling bag. “Come and meet Ma.” 

As it happened, Ma Kent was not a problem. 

“The prodigal returns, Martha. And he’s brought a friend of the boy’s.” 

“Of Conner’s? Oh, Clark! It’s so good to see you.” Bart got a brief impression of grandmotherly charm, dwarfed in the hug she received from her adopted son. Then she was advancing on him. “You must be Bartholomew. Conner’s told us all about you.” 

“All about me?” Bart began worriedly, but he was cut off as she squeezed his arm. 

“As it happens, you’ve arrived before him, but he shouldn’t be much longer. Telegram last night from Lois.” Martha smiled at Bart’s confusion, patting his cheek. “You’ve travelled a long way to see him. You must be famished. Clark, help me in the kitchen.” 

Pa, or as it turned out, Jonathan Kent, invited Bart to make himself at home in the living room while he saw to the horse. 

Bart took full advantage of the opportunity to get his bearings. The house was wooden, constructed to withstand the challenges of pioneering life, with additions made as times grew easier. The floor was bare for the most part, but brightly coloured rugs added comfort and colour, and the odd mix of chairs seemed to hint at individual family members past and present. There were some choice ornaments placed around the room, a vase, an ornate picture frame surrounding a wedding photo, a few portraits and greeting cards on the mantle of the fire-place. There seemed to be a collection of letters tucked behind an ornamental clock and Bart thought he recognised Kon’s handwriting. Drawing out the letter, however dislodged not one but two telegrams. Hastily collecting them from the floor, Bart paused, turning them over before returning them. 

The first one was evidently the most recent. 

CONFIRMED CONNER FOUND AT SEA STOP MEETING HIM IN NEW YORK STOP LOIS STOP

‘Found’ was one of the better words in the English language, Bart decided. It was one thing to know that Kon was almost probably all right, another to know him found. 

The second telegram was not a surprise, but still harder to take. 

MA PA IT HAPPENED AGAIN STOP COMING HOME CONNER STOP. 

Bart bit his lip as he considered it. He might be closer geographically to Kon, but he was no closer to having any idea what had happened in London. And that was—

The door in the kitchen creaked and the telegrams were replaced and Bart across the other side of the room with a speed the ginger haired man racing the train might have been proud of. 

“The usual place?” Clark evidently had the same thought Bart had, crossing to the clock. 

“Yes,” Martha followed only as far as the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Two of them. The first’s from Lois, the second – well, you’ll see.” 

Bart fidgeted with the curtain, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make his awkwardness apparent. As it happened, that wasn’t an issue. The smile at the first telegraph set into an altogether harder expression as Clark took in the second. 

“You were right. I shouldn’t have left.” 

“Now, Clark. We don’t know—“ 

“Don’t we?” The telegram was crumpled into Clark’s pocket. “We’ll be having a full house, we’ll need firewood. I’ll take care of that.” 

“Clark—“

“I won’t be long, Ma.” He had the same effect on a room that the Director did, leaving it much bigger and emptier. Bart wondered what on earth had happened to the man who had stepped off the train with him, when Martha recalled him to the situation. 

“I’m sure you’re well acquainted with the tendency of Kent men to stubbornness, Bartholemew,” she said. “Why don’t you join me in the kitchen, tell me about London?” 

“All right,” Bart said, adding without thinking, “He does realise it’s summer?” 

Ma planted an hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly propelling him towards the kitchen. “As I said. Stubborn.” 

\--oOo--

Kon woke with a start from confused dreams. Dark tunnels, water and shadows. Strange but nothing alarming. Not the dream. So why … ?

He sat up cautiously. The hotel room was small, too small for anyone to hide. There was no cause for the sound he’d heard – a sound … ?

There was – something. At the window. A shadow that withdrew as he looked towards it.

Kon thrust the window open, looking in the direction that shadow had moved. As he scanned the bare brick wall for movement, he had a second’s realisation too late to avoid the sudden deluge of water.

Kon coughed and choked, accidentally swallowing some. “Salt—“ Sea water? That meant—“Cass!”

Moonlight glittered off her smirk. She let the bucket she was holding fall as Kon stretched his arms up, graceful as any acrobat as she dived to meet him. Kon laughed as he swept her up. “I guess we’re engaged?”

Cass pushed his damp fringe off his forehead. “Serious,” she informed him managing to look diffident even as she flicked water off his collar. “Cold.”

“That’s your fault, you know.” Kon couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed as he set her down inside the hotel room. “Or my own fault. Sorry about that – I really wasn’t expecting … well, I guess you worked that part out.” At Cass’s answering smirk, another question occurred to Kon. “How did you find me anyway?”

Cass playfully ruffled his hair before launching herself free from his arms. Kon watched as she explored the room, quickly noticing the two glasses left on the desk. “Friend?” 

“Family. Lois – she’s my cousin’s wife.” Kon retrieved the thin towel hanging on the hotel radiator. “We’re going to Metropolis tomorrow by train, Smallville the day after. You’ll come? I mean – I’d like it if you came. You can meet everyone and they can meet you. Not that it’s much to write home about, but well. I suppose if we’re engaged you should know the worst.”

“Your family? Your –“ Cass paused, deliberating, pulling herself up on to the desk. She didn’t sit, she crouched, ready to move in a hurry should she need to. “Home?”

Kon nodded. “It’s – home,” he agreed. His home, even if he didn’t believe it sometimes. It was really hard to guess Clark’s thoughts, his intentions … Kon sighed, and looked up to find Cass had noiselessly shifted to the side of the bed to tilt her head quizzically at him. “You – really are something, you know that?” 

Cass wasn’t about to be distracted. “Stance bad. Nervous?”

“Of course not. Yes,” Kon pulled a wry face. “I’m not even sure why. I guess – it feels like everything is changing. Being on the ship with you … well, it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses or anything, but it’s gone now. Once we get home, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Conner. Think too much.” 

“Usually people say I don’t think enough,” Kon replied, smiling as he took the hint in Cass’s posture, and put down the towel to sit next to her on the bed. “And listen to you. Talk too much. Think too much. Drop me in the sea too much. Is there anything I don’t do too much?” 

“Kiss me.” 

“Oh.” Kon had been intending the question to be rhetorical so he was momentarily taken back by the answer. “I can work on that.”

\--oOo—

“Rise and shine, Conner, we have a train to catch – oh, excuse me.” As Kon groggily raised himself from the bed, he frowned blearily at Lois’s smirk. It was far too early for her to be so smug. 

“Mng.” 

Lois grinned back. “I take it you found your fiancee then?” 

Cass! Kon hastily turned to look beside him. He needn’t have been concerned. Cass was clearly far more alert than he was, as composed as ever in the blanket she’d stolen from him. He, on the other hand, was suddenly self-consciously aware that he was lucky not to have lost the sheet in sitting up. “She found me. Um.” 

“What did I say about Kent men?” Lois teased. She was enjoying this, but not so much that she forgot to be professional. “We’ve got an hour before our train departs. I’ll order breakfast now, and we can do introductions downstairs – after you’ve dressed.” 

Lois was as good as her word. Breakfast was ready when Kon and Cass made it downstairs, an array of fresh bread, cold meats and fruit that did not last long before their combined appetites. 

“Hungry?”

“First meal not on the boat,” Kon explained self-consciously. “We’re excited.” 

Cass made no apologies for her table-manners, or lack thereof. “Good.” 

“I notice that you’re not travelling with any luggage, Cass,” Lois said thoughtfully. “I’ll need to go into the office once we reach Metropolis. You should take Cass shopping, Conner. Since you did give us an exclusive, you are due a fee.” 

“A fee?” Kon looked to see what Cass thought of this development but she appeared only mildly interested. “That’d be great, Lois.” 

“We’ll stay at my apartment tonight, head to Smallville tomorrow. I’ve already telegraphed Ma to let her know to expect the three of us.” Lois raised her cup of coffee. “Just think. This time in two days, you’ll be home.” 

And yet, it didn’t feel it. 

\--oOo—

 _Apparently Kon thinks I’m ‘charming.’ He wrote home a lot._ Bart frowned. It had been a little disconcerting to realise just how frequently Kon had written home. More homesick than either he or Tim had realised? 

Then again, how would he or Tim have known? They’d neither of them had normal families to compare against. Shifting comfortably back against the post holding up the porch, Bart considered his letter thoughtfully. _It’s weird. Not that Kon would think I’m charming, before you say anything. This. The farm. It’s nice. The Kents, his ‘folks’ as they would say in the local vernacular are lovely. Storybook lovely except they’re real. But not eerie lovely. Mr Kent senior looks as though he would not hesitate to tell you that you were acting the fool, and his son … I don’t know how to explain his son. Kon’s cousin. It’s strange._

“That’s Pete Ross now with the mail-cart, Bartholemew. I’ve got the milk to get. You hurry with your letter, he can take it back with him now.” 

“Yes, Ma!” Bart beamed as she passed him to meet the wagon at the gate. 

_Anyone coming by is an event. They’re always friendly, ready to stop and gossip. And yet, it’s always the same people. It’s really warm and beautiful and peaceful. Is it bad that I’m hoping that Kon doesn’t like it here? I think it might be._


End file.
